


ask to be unbroken (or be brave again)

by TheBlackestFrost



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But also some additional messed upness, Canon typical body horror, F/M, Like...not really that alternate...I'm just fuckin with things...s3 who?, M/M, Post Season 2, Zombaby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 58,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24580297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackestFrost/pseuds/TheBlackestFrost
Summary: The wind howls.The door creaks open.The world changes, again.
Relationships: Baron Samedi/Maman Birgitte, Baron Samedi/Maman Brigitte, Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney, The Jinn | Ifrit/Salim (American Gods)
Comments: 195
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating may increase.

It ends.

Not with a bang, nor with a whimper (who could have believed a whimper anyway).

Not with a howl, but with a frozen second of impalement, a double digit ‘fuck you’, and a final act of spear stealing defiance.

It ends with a zombie walking a corpse up a road in the bright morning sunshine, legs so long the boots occasionally scrape the ground, her face determined as though her mind isn’t clamping down harder and harder on rising panic.

Time passes and then the end is in the past and now here we are.

The wind howls.

The door creaks open.

The world changes, again.

***

On a rainy, hot night in New Orleans, the Baron's Consort opens the door. The woman in her doorway is thin, drenched, hair stuck to her head with moisture. Big eyes glare out, lips pursed in an angry line as water drops cling to her eyelashes like tears, the warm golden lights of streetlamps casting shadows over her face.

Maman Brigitte hasn't seen the woman since she handed over her truth in a space within a space, desperately in denial, trying to get back to a life that had never existed. She’d left with her prize in her pocket and her heart in a cold iron box designed to keep out everything, especially faeries. She’d left a mess standing in the middle of Coq Noir, cigarette in hand and curses on his tongue. Now the mess was dead and gone and here the woman stands. 

In most other circumstances, Maman Brigitte would laugh at the sight of bony arms and angry energy, indulge in a dark humour instead of the sting of loss she’d had since word of his death reached her.

She’d have cackled wildly at the idea that this intense, denial laden creature had nowhere else to go but to the doorstep of the Loa.

She'd have howled at the thought of indulging her anger, her pain, by stealing back the gift the Baron had prepared for her.

At any other time, she would have laughed. But this is not any other time. The woman is soaked, her pretty floral dress looking worse for wear as it clings to her body.

Maman Brigitte is lost for words.

She stares and stares until the woman in her doorway rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, no shit."

She pushes past the Loa and Brigitte lets her.

Brigitte can still see the death following her, though the smell has not returned and there’s something disturbing and frozen about it. Like the woman is caught on the edge of something, like something has intervened and not in her favour.

She can see and _see_ and slowly a picture begins to form. 

Laura stomps her way through the empty bar, stopping to slump awkwardly into a seat and put her head in her hands.

Brigitte finds her voice.

"You're..."

"Yep."

"It's..."

"Yep."

“You’re sure-“

The bark of laughter is sharp and brittle and there’s an edge of panic to it, as if it’s trying to hold off another reaction.

“I was here two fucking weeks ago, do you have an alternative?”

Brigitte doesn’t. Even knowing how the night had started, she knows, she _knows_ that luck lacing fate twisting energy anywhere. 

“And so-“

“And,” Laura cuts her off. "-since I figure this is kind of _entirely_ your fucking fault, you're going to help get me out of this."

Something bubbles up as she stares at the woman’s skinny body with its slight but noticeably swollen mid-section that had absolutely not been there a fortnight prior.

Finally, Maman Brigitte begins to laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

**4 days earlier**

**A cemetery**

_It’s as good a place as any._

_The cemetery is far enough from Cairo not to risk someone stopping by, and by the time she finds it night is covering her path. Nobody around, and by chance an open grave._

_Lovely._

_She’s sitting comfortably by the open grave, one hand in the fresh dirt. The night is mild and the ground still holds some of the day's warmth. She reaches into the oversized denim jacket she has unashamedly wrapped around herself, needing something to protect against the chill leeching in. Neither of their bodies produce warmth anymore, but she at least can find some comfort in pretending._

_She pulls out his flask and takes a long draught._

_She’s cold all the time, though not as decayed as she was before her coin was boosted, and the jacket has kept her dress relatively clean._

_She wonders when she’ll be able to wash it next, to soak out the blood that has leeched into her back as she hauled him up the road. She wonders how hard it is to boost a car, reaches into the pockets of the jacket and rolls her eyes in frustration at the lack of…anything. Where were the pamphlets, the small crowbar, a goddamn wallet…anything._

_She takes another pointless drink and looks at the flask, beaten and turned matte with use, and wonders what’s actually inside it. Not like she can taste it anyway._

_She thinks for a moment and then pours a splash out over the open grave, the sound of liquid like a smattered rain._

_That's an offering, right? Should it be more? Less? Is there a prescribed amount? She pours out another draught and nods to herself, listing slightly._

_"There. Should tide you over until...whatever it is that happens to things like you...happens."_

_She’d think herself drunk if that was still an option. Instead she knows this is something else, something deeper, something that is prickling under the surface and wants to push itself out but she refuses. So it settles for making her feel a little mad._

_She glances into the darkness below, wishes the moonlight illuminated the space instead of just a dark hole where she’d left him._

_She wonders what happens. Will he decay and go back to the earth? Will he disappear? Is Mr Ibis driving around in a hearse somewhere, ready to pick him up? Should she fill the grave? Leave him exposed?_

_She doesn’t look again, doesn’t need to peek over the edge to see a shadow of the massive form she dropped, not ungently, into the open grave. She knows what he looks like, bloody hole in his chest and the light gone from his eyes and the snark dead on his tongue. She doesn’t need the moonlight._

_She doesn't think about Bilquis, apple in hand and eyes surprisingly understanding as Laura nudges a pool of blood with her foot. She doesn't think about how his weight had felt across her shoulders, the finality of his stiffening limbs and the lack of life in his massive, unmoving body._

_She wonders how much the end hurt, and if it was enough to make him feel absolved._

_She feels something like a hysterical giggle in her throat and pushes it down, down, down._

_Laura pulls the vial out of her dress and swishes the liquid gently. It has not changed colour or sparkled or whatever the fuck is meant to happen when you add blood infused with love to a magic potion of…resurrection. Instead it mixes awkwardly, the stopper slick and tacky under her fingers with what a day ago was pumped around his too large form._

_In another life she may have found it gory, and if anyone else had been around she might have been embarrassed at what could be seen as theft._

_But she knows, in her decaying bones, he has given it freely. And she finds that matters to her; there is a kind of freedom in knowing this will work, that she can use it, that he would have wanted her to._

_A freedom to admitting his blood meant something, anything, in the scheme of things…to admit she meant something to him. And knew it._

_“You fucking idiot.”_

_She shouldn’t do this. This way lies madness._

_“You wanted a war and got fucking…shish kebab?”_

_Well, more madness._

_“You’re…you should be here.”_

_She knows that means something, as much as she lacks the capacity or energy to explore what. She knows instinctively what the potion needed, and that she had provided it. She knows this will work._

_“You’re meant to be here.”_

_There is no one around, so she doesn’t hide at how small and fragile her voice sounds._

_“You…you need to be here.”_

_She sighs, smiles, and knows it doesn’t reach her eyes._

_“Well…to…” she blinks, trying to think of anything she could say. “fuck-“_

_She swallows the sob that has tried to struggle up past her throat, squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, refuses to engage with whatever it trying so desperately to break through._

_She stares at the bottle in her hand and knows she should feel excited, or at least some kind of anticipation. Instead she wonders if she’ll need to vomit up the coin in her chest and hopes she won’t just choke to death on it. Wonders what she’ll need to do with it next…leave it with him?_

_Would it work on leprechauns? He’s a dead thing, maybe there’s a chance there, right?_

_She ignores what feels like the barest, most miniscule spark of hope and concentrates instead on her own relief, rebirth, resurrection._

_She opens the vial filled with her truth and his love and drinks it in one fell swoop._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a new angle for me. And one I haven't fully mapped out yet.
> 
> Some of this would be triggering for a number of people, given the combination of canon typical violence and gore, and the subject matter. I will try to provide warnings without giving too many spoilers - you are welcome to message me privately if you'd like more explicit warnings should you have concerns.


	3. Chapter 3

**4 days earlier**

**A beautiful mansion surrounded by barren land**

The dawn crosses her legs neatly, admiring the way the shape tapers to a stunning mauve stiletto, the thin heel making her ankle look all the more delicate. She adjusts her skirt, a rich purple with a marvellous golden trim, and watches the dark sky outside.

She rarely looks out the window these days, too hurt by the sight of the land below, but tonight she has a good reason.

She feels the moment when an elixir of life is drunk, bright and sparkling because she knows what she’s looking for. When the girl’s body hits cemetery dirt she reaches through the earth and calls the grave’s contents to her.

The dawn has to wait until she feels things shift and knows her prize has landed.

It’s not hard to pull it through the earth, though the damn thing isn’t exactly small.

She’d laugh if the joke wasn’t so crass. Instead she sips her cocktail, a confetti coloured concoction that matches her dress beautifully, and stares at it for a moment as a memory bubbles up.

_“A dead girl? I have a house full of guests, and a garage full of caterers, and you brought me a dead girl?”_

_“I don’t want her to be dead.”_

_“Reason being?”_

_“Selfish reasons.” She stares at him, can feel that fucking coin of his in the corpse’s chest and wonders why he doesn’t just pluck it out. “Can you do that? Professional courtesy, colleague to colleague?”_

_He doesn't even bother to flash her that grin of his, the absolute prick. The arrogance of it reminds her of centuries ago, when he was a less broken deity still capable of maintaining pride and conceit despite the waning of his power. She remembers the last time she succumbed (or succeeded, depending on who is telling the story). She remembers big hands and rough mouth and disinterest in indulging her feelings in the light of day._

_She’s not hurt, obviously. But she wants to sting him, just a bit._

_“You all think I’m like you, I’m not like you.” She lets the contempt drip. “You I’m particularly not like.”_

_He doesn't take the bait._

_She smiles sweetly. “And that doesn’t translate into courtesies owed, professional or otherwise.”_

_She enjoys her little moment but his eyes are clear and his tone is even, like he’s known this would be the answer and he has his card ready to play._

_“A favour then.” She bristles. “You do owe me that.”_

_She wants to strangle him, wants to lash out, but he’s called in the favour and she will not give him the satisfaction of denying the debt._

_Theirs is a strange interaction, and when the corpse names itself she pauses._

_“Laura Moon...” It clicks together. “Shadow Moon?”_

_“Mmmm, we know he’s here. We know who he’s here with.” She cannot believe what she’s hearing. “Best_ he _doesn’t know I’m here.” He pauses. “Best he don’t know who I’m here with.”_

_He plays casual but she can see the anxiety and her curiosity gets the better of her._

_He moves forward as he speaks, and the size of him reminds her of old power, long lost in a new world, further reduced in the wake of shame and lost belief. “This is your day. The vernal equinox, the light of the world. Rebirth, renewal, resurrection can you do it?”_

_Damn him._

_She can, he knows she can, and he’s appealing, unbelievably lazily, to her ego and fuck him it’s working. She wonders if this is why she fell so hard when she did fall, wonders if she saw her own loss in his eyes, back when he still cared about losing._

_“I can, I have, I normally wouldn’t.” She smiles and sees a hint of concern in his eyes that is deeply satisfying. “But today isn’t a normally kind of day.”_

_“I don’t resurrect, I relife. Life has always been my gift to re-gift.”_

_The corpse’s awkward desperation, is grating and charming all at once. It’s like she’s trying to hold out only the innocent and deserving parts of herself when in reality the darkest, most selfish pieces are laid all the more bare._

_There is a kind of rawness to her, like parts are being stripped away, and her oversized advocate won’t meet her eyes._

_And so Ostara tries, truly she does._

_She looks. She sees._

_And she is so disappointed in him she feels it like a stab wound._

_He is half in shadow when she turns to the doorway._

_“Death is usually the last enemy.”_

_“Right, not for Jesus Christ.”_

_This poor girl. She smiles reassuringly though her words will be anything but._

_“Oh, no for you, and you’re no Jesus Christ.”_

_She keeps her voice light._

_“Are you still working for the man?”_

_She doesn't need to ask, not with what she saw in this girl's eyes, not with the weight of guilt settling in his shoulders like a mantle._

_“I was.”_

_He refuses to meet her eyes. It speaks volumes. She wonders what this girl is to him, really. She wonders if he even knows._

_“About that, we have a problem here.”_

_The girl, Laura, no longer just a corpse but rather a casualty, speaks up._

_“A problem with me?”_

_“Oh, no, not wth you dear you’re perfectly lovely but_ _your_ _dead, yes, is a problem for me.”_

_She looks at him when she says it, lets him know that she has seen and she knows._

_“I can’t help you with your dead. You are dead of a…” she doesn’t know how to word this, she doesn’t know what he’s playing at, bringing the girl here knowing what he knows, knowing what he’s done. “…different kind.”_

_He leans against the wall, unsurprised but clearly impacted._

_“Fuck.”_

_“How am I dead different?”_

_She is so very disappointed in him. And somewhat unsurprised._

_“Laura Moon, you were killed by a god. I can’t interfere with that. That is a dead without undoing. Not by my hand anyway.”_

_His mouth twitches and she is grateful for the distraction of the rabbit, blinks when she is told of Media’s presence._

_“Oh shit, I have other guests.” She gives herself another moment to enjoy his grief and wonder, truly, at the cause. “Good luck!”_

The memory is oddly cloying, like it wants to linger against her skin. Perhaps in another telling she would give herself pause, consider the impact of her intentions.

She thinks of her poor, sweet rabbits, thinks of ravens and spears and pretty words from an oily mouth. The pause passes unnoticed.

And now the moment is open and she just needs an anchor.

She sighs, sets down her glass, and prepares herself for a long night.

**Present day**

**Coq Noir**

Laura is _here_.

She found it, hitching an occasional ride but mostly walking, her feet landing heavily one in front of the other. 

At least they'd seemed to know where to go, her mind too preoccupied and blank all at once to process something as basic as direction or something like a plan. When she'd found herself in Louisiana it had been with neither surprise nor intention, and she'd simply done the job of continuing to lift the feet that felt they knew their own way.

And so she came here.

And why exactly is she here?

_"You smell a little rank baby...it's the heat here, drink this."_

_"Poor poor Laura Moon..."_

_"They're death Loa;_ they _fucked_ us!"

She has tried to answer that ever since realising where her feet were taking her. At the end of the day it was simple. 

She was here because…where else could she go?

Home to her mother’s house, risen from the dead and ready for a new wave of admonishment and horror? She has broken too much of the shell off, and the woman underneath is rawer and more exposed than her mother could ever realise. 

Besides…fuck those assholes.

Back to Cairo to see if Wednesday would make a meal out of her? Or worse, ask Shadow his thoughts on her…condition? Or find it empty except for dried blood and the undertakers (would Mr Ibis cut away anything unwanted and devour it like maggots)? 

Maybe she could disappear into the woods alone or move into a tiny town where no one would care or know her…

…and then what? What happens when this…thing…continues? Gets bigger too quickly? She refuses to think past that, to what could, should, would happen next. Refuses to ask herself more questions that entertain the suggestion that this is more than a temporary horror story in the horror story that has become her life.

There are three people she can think of running to right now. One is dead, one is in a motorcycle sidecar who the fuck knows where, and the other …

…there is no other option than to go to the scene of the crime and start flinging out blame and orders and anger until someone fucking fixes this. Whatever that means.

(and if here was where she had seen him briefly relaxed, genuinely if briefly happy, welcomed…if here was somewhere she associated with a complex miasma of anger and hurt and food and warmth and…something else…then so be it)

She had found the place, had stared at the darkened front, closed for the evening, and looked at the empty upturned bucket and drumsticks by the doorway. Without someone beating out a thrumming tattoo against them they should have seemed out of place. Instead they looked as if they were waiting, and she wondered if the young man ever got a new shirt.

She remembered watching him pull the coin from the air.

Remembering him pulling a coin from the air, she dug out some spare change from her pocket and shoved the coins under the bucket, not sure if that little ritual had been required for entry, a heads up as to his presence in the area, or his way of avoiding further debt.

Whatever.

She’s here now.

***

When Brigitte finally stops laughing she stares at Laura

"You bring anythin' with you?"

Laura narrows her eyes. "What, like an overnight bag?"

Brigitte's eyes flash for a moment and she sucks her teeth, and Laura gets the distinct impression that she has missed the mark.

The Loa watches her a moment longer and then, faster than Laura expects, lashes a hand out to grip Laura's wrist tightly. She swallows as she's pulled close, too close, and wishes she could look away from whatever stares out from those green eyes. She smells of cigar smoke and rum and something spicy and dark and a little tantalising and Laura ignores the fact that the last body she touched was deader than she is now and that she misses contact more than she's willing to admit. 

A beat passes, and then another, and then just when Laura is ready to try her luck and escape this fucking staring contest, Brigitte releases her. She walks towards the back of the bar. 

“Come on, baby, let’s see what we’re dealin’ with.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Present day**

**Coq noir**

She is sitting on a narrow bed in a back room as deft hands run over her carefully, gentle but firm. The candle flames flicker, casting shadows over the walls that look as if they’re stretching out towards her, watching and eager.

Brigitte presses a wrist to Laura’s forehead, turns her face either way, studies her tongue, checks her breasts. When her hands reach Laura’s stomach she stops, watching the other woman’s face and waiting.

Laura nods, and closes her eyes and Brigitte moves her slim fingers down to the small swelling, pretends this is happening to someone else. For a brief moment she misses being properly, fully, completely dead, desensitised, numbed.

She wants to make a joke, something about privacy after what had happened last time, something about buying a girl a drink, something about what happens in New Orleans staying in New Orleans…she says nothing.

Brigitte's face is intensely focused, and Laura has the distinct feeling she's seeing something Laura can't. She studies Laura’s chest for a moment and raises a hand to stroke the autopsy lines with gentle reverence, and Laura wishes she knew more about Loa.

“How you feelin’?”

Brigitte’s voice is calm and measured, and Laura resents her, wishes she was rude or curt or dismissive or anything to justify the anger and fear.

Laura settles for a shrug.

“Any nausea? You tired?”

She pauses and then nods.

Every footstep has cost her.

She can feel weight on her shoulders as if she’s still carrying his body.

She can feel the drain on her being, can feel something being taken and…redirected. Sent to something that shouldn’t be there and costing her seconds and moments and shortening her already slow time.

Brigitte sits back, quiet for a moment. She is patient and Laura fills the space between them.

"It's like before. I'm so thirsty. My bones are cold." She swallows thickly against the dryness of her own fault. "But I'm...tired. I can feel myself feeling less and less."

She doesn't need to explain the importance of anger in her journey her, the vital role of having someone to blame and lash out at, the energy that had given her body and sent to her feet as they marched her along until she was somewhere that...was here.

Brigitte watches her thoughtfully and then takes a packet of something from her belt, taps three measures into a glass with water and adds a drop of something the colour of violets.

“Drink this.”

Laura stares at her and Brigitte doesn’t shy away from the distrust, just watches patiently until Laura sighs and throws it back.

It’s like swallowing sunlight, a sensation of warmth and a mild burn. She can feel some of the exhaustion lessen, like she has been well rested after a good night’s sleep. She finds a pressure in her chest loosen somewhat, an ache in her back ease. She feels something like relaxation spread, a softening but nothing that seeks to pull her under. Mild and gentle and not unwelcome.

From Brigitte's expression she knows this is temporary, knows that this is no solution, knows that her time is running out faster and faster. 

She knows what the next question will be. Knows that it’s the appropriate next step, to try and work out just how quickly this…thing…is progressing.

"When did you-"

_The memory burns._

_She has been dreaming._

_It was a quiet dream, a car with windows down on an open highway, the wind in her hair and a big hand on her thigh. It’s a dream where neither of them speaks and she is bathed in the golden sunlight and can feel, really feel, that she is here._

_An arm appears between them, flawless dark skin and golden tipped nails, a dark red apple in hand. She smiles and takes it, sinking her teeth in and enjoying the crisp, cool texture. She looks in the rear view mirror and sees the woman in the backseat cocking an eyebrow, winking at her._

_"Planning on kissing me again, cause I've had kind of a day."_

_"My kisses have been known to improve a day."_

_The reflection disappears and then it’s just the two of them again, driving towards a sunset that paints the sky a glorious mess of fluorescent pink and orange. She feels something swelling in her chest, hope or joy or something like it, knows she is being granted a wish unlike any other._

_Something twists. Something is wrong._

_The image shifts and then the air smells of rotting plants, and she feels something in her mouth. She spits out a maggot, looks down at the apple and sees it swarming with flies._

_She wakes up in a graveyard on cool soil under bright morning sunshine._

_She can faintly taste the potion on her tongue, tries to remember the night before, tries to figure out when and how she fell asleep. What had she felt before?_

_She stretches, holds her hands in front of her face. She thinks if she squints they may look less pallid, though it’s hard to tell. She thought becoming alive again would feel…more._

_Instead she just feels strangely still, halted almost._

_She moves to sit up, finding herself impeded by something, and freezes._

_She is used to her body changing rapidly now, now that it’s no longer a surprise to have suddenly decayed more overnight, to have discovered skin parting or more pus and gore. She has spewed maggots into sinks and carried her own limbs and sighted her bones in the mirror through autopsy seams._

_But this is not decay or gore._

_This is something new._

_She moves awkwardly and reaches shaking hands towards her torso and begins to scream._

_The memory is acidic and vile._

She cuts Brigitte off sharply.

"Woke up and it was there."

***

**2 days ago**

**Another cemetery, this one in Lakeside, Wisconsin**

Shadow Moon stares out over an icy lake.

He wanders, every inch of him wrapped in layer upon layer of warmth, the chill still leeching into his body. It’s overcast, the grey sky and fallen snow painting a muted, greyscale picture.

He likes the cemetery, likes the headstones and final words and the attempt to remember people like they mattered, like they were something, like it wouldn’t take more than a generation or two for them to disappear entirely.

He thinks of the last time he was in a graveyard.

It was bright, shiny, all yellow and orange and her huge eyes.

_"He is not a mentor. He is not on your team. He had me killed, did you know that? He had me killed to get me out of your way.”_

_Yes. No. How could he? How could he not?_

_“He is behind all of this, Puppy. He is the root fucking cause. Listen, no matter what, I will always have your back, but you need to seriously re-evaluate who your allies are here. You have to trust me, Puppy."_

_The memory of the dog in the park scrapes at him and then his mind shifts to last night, an accented voice rasping out a truth, unadorned and unsurprising and ugly. “I fucked her, in New Orleans.”_

_"Don't call me Puppy."_

_Her emotions bleed across her expression, from the hurt to the tight clamping down, and wonders if he ever bothered really reading her when she was alive. It was so clear that she wanted to break, just a little bit, at his focus. The fairness of his request was evident, but the moment...after hearing her warning, hearing her plea, hearing her trying so hard to share and protect him and compartmentalise...he supposes it’s a little cruel to fixate._

_And yet, here he is, and she swallows the hurt and pushes on._

_"Ok.”_

_Is this growth, he wonders? She would have tried to convince him before, even a day ago. Or would she? What happened in New Orleans beyond the obvious?_

_She meets his eyes and he’s reminded that those clear green eyes can hold so much steel._

_“I'm gonna kill Wednesday, are you gonna try and stop me?"_

_He watches her for a moment and sees the fire, the determination. She had that in life only occasionally, the last time being their little casino heist. He wonders if she’s looking for revenge or seeking redemption or whether this is just another way of trying to protect him._

_He wonders what happened in New Orleans and whether she’s broken by the dead man lying in the morgue. He looks, really looks, and thinks maybe he knows._

_"Free country."_

And now here he is. He misses her, he thinks, or some part of her. Wishes he could have found a way to accept her warnings and not cut ties so cleanly, wishes he’d never suspected Wednesday’s part in her death, knows his suspicion puts him in the wrong.

He wishes Sweeney had been nearby, chain smoking and taking up too much space.

He hears a sound and turns.

And Shadow Moon stares.

****

**_***_ **

****

**3 days ago**

**A motel room four hours from Cairo**

He can feel the call of his bond, drawn tight like a band ready to snap him back to place.

It has never bothered him, not really.

This is what it means to be an ifrit, born of fire rather than mud, fierce and ephemeral and…bound. There is little point in complaining about the nature of one’s being; of course rulers would seek a way to bind such a resource to themselves. To harness the fire to a talisman and have an ifrit at your whim.

Driving a taxi, playing usher as gods ride a merri-go-round, picking up pieces as instructed, easy violence used as necessary.

“I do not grant wishes.”

Big words said to a quiet man who was drowning in a job where people treated him as invisible. A man who heard the words one night and then the next morning had a new job and a new lease on life.

He watches Salim breathes, studies the long dark lashes against his tan cheek, feels the call of the bond fighting with the tugging in his chest.

It is in their nature to be bound, and there is little point fighting nature.

_"Can you go against Mr Wednesday s express wishes? Professional curiosity."_

_Fuck off._

_"Professionally?” He chooses his words carefully. “I can kill whoever and whatever I please."_

_It is true, but the words ring coldly against his insides. It is the bragging of a boy not yet a man, proudly proclaiming what he can_ _do while the list of what he can’t_ _do is infinitely longer and more painful._

_"Ohhh, that sounds scary as hell...you say that shit like that?"_

_Nancy’s grin has sharp edges, and he will not be subjected to another lecture on slavery from this grinning trickster._

_"Check, motherfucker."_

Little point.

And yet.

The Jinn watches Salim sleeping. It is a relief at times to see him sleep, to not be faced with the raw and open emotion in those liquid eyes, to not feel the belief like a vast well waiting to be tapped.

_"Does he know what happens to you if you break the rules of your bond?"_

_How could he? Could he know anything? He has never in his life met anyone like Salim who knows so fucking little and yet, somehow, knows far too much._

_"What he knows is of little importance. It's what he does that matters."_

_It’s too much; he should have kept his mouth shut, but Salim is causing him to ask questions and that is…not in his nature._

_"Oh Sisyphus...I do hope you manage to get that rock up that hill."_

_Ibis’ amusement is tangible and the ifrit thinks for a moment he wouldn’t feel so cocky if he knew that corpse was no longer on his table. Ah well._

_"You know me. Eyes of fire, shit for brains. As-Salam-u-Alaikum.”_

_"Til death do you part."_

_"Sarcasm and death...what a motherfucker."_

His bond calls him to somewhere cold, somewhere icy, and he sighs. He will need to wake Salim, knows slipping out in the middle of the night would harm the other man.

He watches him sleep and thinks of warm places.


	5. Chapter 5

**Present day**

**Coq Noir**

In normal circumstances, Laura would love this bar. Strung with gold and red fairy lights, lamps and candles and dark wood, it feels like being somewhere divey and homely all at once. The air smells slightly too sweet, as if from a thousand nights of spilled drinks with the undertone of rich food. The odours are a little more muted than last time but Brigitte’s draught has done its job, and she relishes being able to experience her surroundings. The night they had been here it had been crowded, buzzing energy and drinks and then…

She stops herself from following the thought, refocuses on the tail end of the conversation in front of her.

“You saw her, she weren’t here but a few weeks ago.”

“How far is it?”

“Looks at least a few months, but she ain’t but a little thing, could be less or more. Either way, more than it should be.”

"You're sure it's his?"

Brigitte cocks an eyebrow and he nods, not apologising for the minor insult he'd made in just asking her, but she seems to forgive him. 

It’s strange being spoken about as if she’s not there, but something about Brigitte’s calm responses to Samedi’s questions suggest that this is a well-trodden information exchange, one for which she’s not required.

She studies them properly and thinks of her last time in New Orleans.

She doesn’t think of finding _Sweeney_ passed out on a pile of Mardi Gras gear and donning a tangle of beads. The feeling of relief at seeing him after the twisty, disconcerting lies and mindfuck of Wednesday.

She doesn’t think of him as a source of comfort, doesn’t think of the moment she realised that this was what comfort felt like.

She doesn’t think of how quickly he sobered up, how warm she had felt to be back listening to him talk about his ridiculous travels, how she had found herself smiling at his nonsense and the feeling of relief not waning.

She doesn’t think of how much more aware she was of his presence, keeping her arms folded over her front and not swinging herself around, avoiding accidental contact rather than using his body like an extension of her own.

Moments, she’d had moments to feel that strange way before he’d pulled out his coin and the next adventure had thrown them on a darker path.

She doesn’t think of that; she thinks of the couple in front of her.

When she’d last arrived her first introduction had been a sharp tongued woman threatening her husband crudely and loudly as he grinned and flirted his way through the bar. Having them both turn eyes to her had been disconcerting, but exactly the kind of risky and wild adventure she needed to distract her from whatever her mind was trying to avoid.

She wishes she could laugh at that.

She had been too focused on Samedi, on the feeling of feeling again, to properly watch them interact.

_"They miss taste the most."_

_"No...they miss touch the most."_

_Green eyes locking with hers and smoke blowing over her face, her body set alight, her skin recovering sensation, her dead heart remembering the feeling of beating._

_"You like that, baby?"_

_A wicked, wide grin, she nods._

_The Loa laugh wildly._

_"Oh, knock it off."_

_They are quiet immediately, turning to stare at him in unison, and he’d cast his eyes downward as if to hide something from them. She thinks he failed._

She was happily distracted by the heat and hands and all too willing to ignore Sweeney being led away, leaving her alone with the Baron.

Now she watches them properly.

Brigitte is in almost constant movement, a graceful swirl of long legs, skirts and energy, red curls twisting as if to agree with her words. By contrast her husband holds himself tall and still, hands set on a chair back like it’s a cane, and Laura’s eyes pick out the little metal skulls adorning the base of his hat. His eyes follow his wife, like he can read every gesture.

He watches her like nothing else exists, and when she pauses his voice is quiet and firm.

"An' how exactly did this become our problem, chere?"

Brigitte’s movements still and she doesn’t say a word, waiting patiently as he reads something from her expression. His eyes widen slightly.

“Non…enposib.”

“Wi, men se vre.”

“Chere, the number of things-“

“Oh I know.”

Laura keeps her arms crossed over her chest, refusing to look down, as she has since the fucking thing first appeared.

*** 

The Baron and his consort tangle together on multiple planes.

There is no sense to this; a truth was given, a potion brewed, an ingredient added. The end of the equation was a simple one, unexciting for them. Their minor mischief aside, this was straightforward, and the Baron mixes a very good draught.

They are Loa, lwa, guardians and protectors of the dead. Your grave must be dug, your light gathered, your memory held and kept. They granted their favour, met their end of the compact.

But something has intervened.

Something has tied and twisted and bound and anchored and now here they are, home full of dead girl with her belly full of a dead man’s get.

***

As they speak in a mix of Creole, English, and something else, Laura remembers the morning she woke with this new nightmare to face.

_Her screaming eventually stopped._

_She refuses to look down again, to let her stiff fingers stretch over her stomach. Refuses to grab the tiny bottle and hurl it into the open grave, refuses to even look at his fucking corpse and let out the shout of anger that even this he’s not fucking here for. Asshole._

_She refuses to stay here a moment longer._

_She had to pull herself to standing, surprised at how many aches and pains her dead body could feel, surprised at the warmth of the sun on her face and the chill deep in her bones._

_She has to move._

_She knows very little but she knows she doesn’t have long._

_Her feet decide the direction and she walks out of the graveyard without a backwards glance._

She blinks, pushing away the memory of the agony, of the burning in her chest slipping further down, the feeling of being hijacked. She pushes aside the acid consumption of an opportunity slipping through her fingers, of heat and light and the burst of creation, unwelcome and uninvited.

A sharp sound brings Laura out of her reverie.

“Girl!”

She realises they’re staring at her, Brigitte close enough to have snapped her fingers sharply in Laura’s face.

“Fuck…what?”

“You took it, yes?”

Laura resists the urge to feign ignorance but Brigitte’s clear eyes tell her there is little point.

“Yes.”

“And you used his blood.”

It’s not a question but Laura still wants to hide, to run away from all that that implies. That’s private, right? Personal, surely. No one’s fucking business if the closest thing she could find to…that…was in a dead man.

She forces herself to respond.

“Yes.”

***

Brigitte turns to Samedi who is shaking his head.

“Not just petyon an…pyès monnen-“

Brigitte grits her teeth. It is not that simple and they both know it, they can’t just blame this on Sweeney’s fucking coin deciding to go rogue. It’s doing its bit within in chest, there’s no reason for it to have turned traitor.

This has the feel of something else, and the implications of that make her shiver.

She wants to break something, wants to know what the fuck has dared to intervene.

“Destine?”

Her man shakes his head, and she can see the anger in his eyes.

“Non, fucking chans. Oswa… prentan…”

She stares.

Spring. Flowers. New fucking life.

***

Laura feels that prick of anger again at being spoken about but not spoken to, yet another thing occurring in the room without her knowing or understanding what is going on. She feels her hand tightening on the glass of water, fucking water, she’s been sipping.

“Nou pa ka sispan sa a..”

The glass shatters as her hand tightens and her voice rings through the bar.

“Hey, fucking English please?”

They stop speaking abruptly.

The Loa turn to her in one graceful move and she feels a bolt of fear, well aware that she’s overstepped her bounds. Something trickles into her mind about demanding to be catered to on someone else's ground, in someone else's home, in a tongue that was forced onto people, and she feels a sickly heat across her body.

The lighting in the bar seems the shift and flicker, as if the space is telling her to mind her manners, a threatening hum tattooing across her skin. She fights off the urge to wrap her arms lower, fights off the fear that makes her body want to shake, wonders if she has misread the Loa.

_“You bring anythin’ with you?”_

She suddenly wonders why she showed up empty handed, why she still can’t fucking listen after everything she’s seen so far, not even now. 

Between Brigitte’s sharp green eyes and Samedi’s dark, unreadable ones she feels herself being weighed and measured and decides to choose her next words very, very carefully. She says them without pride and without humility, offers them plainly. She will not get a second chance at this, and is well aware that she’s placing herself in debt with what she’s asking.

“Please…please help me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My terrible Haitian Creole:
> 
> "It's impossible."  
> "Yes, but it's true."  
> "Not just the potion ... the coin."  
> "Destiny?"  
> "No, fucking lucky. Or spring"  
> "We cannot stop this"


	6. Chapter 6

**Present day**

**Coq Noir**

She watches their shadows on the wall, watches how the fairy lights and rain on the windows make it seem as if their shadows move, turning their heads towards one another, though the Loa have not shifted.

“Please help me.” 

It’s a plea but they don’t laugh her out of the bar and she decides to lay it out.

“Whatever… _this_ …is” she gestures to her stomach. “I’m guessing the potion you gave me played a part?”

The Loa are still not moving but she takes their silence as a reason to continue.

“So I’m…I’m still dead…still getting deader, right?”

They share a glance and the Baron’s voice is low.

“The coin in your chest, it’s keeping you going…but it’s workin’ overtime.”

Laura’s eyes narrow. “And the potion?”

His tone doesn’t change but there is steel in his gaze. “Something happened.”

She forces her mouth into a brittle smile. “So can you un-fucking-happen it?”

The Baron shakes his head "I can't do that."

"Well why the fuck no-"

"-you won't make it."

Laura is momentarily unable to speak. If she’s honest with herself, prior to this moment there has been no reality where this nightmare doesn’t reverse itself and she can flounce her way back to her quest for life and freedom or at least a drink and a cigarette before turning to dust.

"What? Why? Can’t you just… make me another potion?”

He’s getting impatient.

“You know what went in, chere. Your truth, his blood...and not just your wish.”

She shakes her head. “He was a drunken fucking lunatic but since I am 100% sure he wasn’t wishing me to wind up an undead incubator-“

"His wanted you to have life." He cuts over the top as if she’s not even speaking, as if she's not sputtering about how fucking insane this is. “You ain’t got another truth lingering around, and even if you did, you’re still missin’ an ingredient.”

_He pours his concoction into a tiny glass bottle and she stares._

_“One ingredient’s still missing. I can’t help you with that one.”_

_“What, what is it?”_

_“Le vrai sang de l’amour. It’s blood, infused with love. Two drops.”_

_“But I-I have to…I have to find that?”_

_He chuckles and she’s momentarily angry at his amusement, at his mirth, at the way he laughs as if he knows something that she doesn’t._

_“Right. Cause why would this be easy?”_

Missing. Gone. With no other available source.

Laura stares and stares and the anger rises and the panic is growing.

"So, what, I'm all out of wishes? Just like fucking that."

The note of pleading in her voice makes her cringe and when Brigitte reaches towards her Laura can't help but throw up a wall. 

"None of this would be happening if not for your fucking switcheroo and fucked up potion!”

Brigitte folds her arms, a warning in her voice. “Careful girl, we may have our tricks but ain’t like you didn’t know what you needed to give up.”

_“Look at you. Belly all shiny…sweat on your skin…you’re about as close to being alive as you can be while still being dead.”_

_She can feel the air growing warmer._

_She has missed this._

_Missed eyes running over her and not picking out decay, hints of putrefaction, moments of gore. She’s not ashamed of her descent into corpsification but this…being devoured…being run over like you’re prey and they’re the predator and you don’t mind for a second being caught…like she’s sexy and young and ready for trouble._

_She has missed this._

_“Tell me something Laura Moon. If I give you this bottle, then what?”_

“So I should have expected to be on the menu of the necrophiliac’s delight?”

“You knew the price, did you think you wouldn’t have to pay it?”

_He moves closer, close enough that she can smell cigar smoke and mist. The light moves over thick muscles, his eyes pinning her in place._

_She finds she doesn’t mind._

_“What will you do when your skin warms for another?”_

_She looks away for a moment, pretends she hasn’t thought about this response, pretends she doesn’t know the answer as he continues._

_"For me. This is a second chance. What will you do with it, Dead Girl?”_

_She struggles with the heat, the energy between them, his dark words and warm bulk._

_“For payment I ask for only truth.”_

_She struggles with where her mind goes, not to her husband’s hands and mouth but to another body, another man. She thinks of him, and her skin warms._

_The thought is like an arrow, splintering through the heat and the golden fairy light, the truth a brief flash quashed quickly as she reaches for Samedi and they crash into each other._

_She’s not fast enough to quash it fully, and she hands over her truth to the Baron._

“How, HOW could I have known-“

“You DID know!” Samedi’s patience is gone and he doesn’t hold back, his voice a deep boom across the bar. “ _Your_ truth, _your_ denial, _yours_.”

He moves behind the bar to pour himself a drink, his shadow seeming to linger before moving with him, and for a split second Laura wonders why either of them are entertaining this nonsense from her when they could whisk themselves away.

_“I’ve missed your cooking, old friend.”_

She already knows, of course. Same reason she knew Brigitte would let her in, same reason she knows they would help her. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? They know, she knows. And she cannot bring herself to say it out loud.

The Baron is calmer now.

“Girl, you made your choices, an’ ain’t nothin’ in that bottle I gave you designed to build a new life.”

Laura scoffs.

“Beg to fucking differ-“

Brigitte’s voice is sharp.

"So your current predicament ain't just from a potion, baby."

Laura stares, feels her throat trying to close. 

"You...how can I even...this could just be another trick."

Brigitte rolls her eyes, and they both know it's bullshit, both know Laura wouldn't be here if she really believed that. 

"You wanna rail at the wind baby go ahead but ain’t nothin’ railin’ back. This is your road, walk it.”

The panic is building higher.

“Please, please there has to be something-“

The Baron has poured himself another drink. "I told you, that potion ain’t designed to create life, somethin’ stepped in and now whatever is keeping you going is tied to the bab-“

“DON’T fucking call it a…don’t…”

Neither of them admonish her this time and their patience with her rudeness makes it all the worse. She can’t breathe, doesn’t need to, and the knowledge of both are making her feel ready to hyperventilate or explode.

“I can’t…I can’t do this-“

“Darlin’, you gotta breathe, calm down-“

Brigitte’s voice is like a balm, firm and kind, a voice you could listen to while a hand gently strokes hair away from your face.

Laura hates it.

It’s too much, being spoken to so gently while something is making her feel this insane, as if the ground beneath her feet has disappeared, as if this stupid fucking dead decaying body couldn’t even remain single fucking occupant.

She is not this fucking person, she does not need nurturing and gentle voices and to fucking lie down and stay calm and dear fucking god how the fuck is this where she is?

Brigitte takes a step towards her but Laura’s feet finally move, and she bolts out back out the door and into the night.

***

The Loa watch for a moment before Brigitte turns to her husband.

"She won't go far."

"You sure about that?" 

Brigitte nods. 

"She wants to be here."

He doesn't argue, knows better than to question his wife when she's reading a dead woman. 

"Why?" 

"Because...he felt safe here." 

He wraps his arms around her waist, breathes deeply into her neck, watches her reflection in the glass. He is silent as she inhales a shaky breath, her sadness heavy around her, her voice a whisper. 

"She wants to feel safe."

For a moment it is a few hundred years ago, flashing green eyes distrustful as he pours rum into a bowl of peppers. Safety. 

In their bar, their home, something in him softens. He thinks of their son.

He holds her close and they watch the rain on the windows.

***

She runs, her boots hitting the wet pavement, and she can barely see the streetlamps as she rushes through, uncaring of destination at this point.

She needs to get away.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind asks her how she’ll get away from something she’s carrying. But her practice at avoiding silly little voices is deeply ingrained, and so she keeps going, rounding a corner as a group of extravagantly dressed 20-somethings laugh their way out of a club.

The streetlamps throw shadows about strangely and she feels followed. 

She is briefly distracted by the mass of sequins and neon mesh and it’s just enough time for fate to put something in her path.

In this case, an upturned bucket and pair of drumsticks.

She goes down hard and hears a sickening crunch as she lands on her leg awkwardly. The group rushes over and a warm voice cuts through the rain.

“Hey, ki kote ou prale ti fi?”

The drag queen is incredibly tall in black thigh high boots, colourfully dressed in a pink and black skirt and halter top that reveals smooth, dark skin and more than a few tattooes. Heavy make up and a half skull headdress complete the look.

Behind the skull dark eyes watch her curiously, full lips slightly open with surprise.

Laura struggles to move. 

“I have…I have to go…”

The drag queen walks closer, elegant and comfortable. The pink, elbow length gloves darken in the rain, the perfectly coiffed wig of blonde hair starting to look worse for wear.

Those dark eyes narrow and Laura feels completely exposed.

“You…” there is a recognition to the words. “…kite m ede ou.”

She has no clue what is being said but she doesn’t feel in danger so she fights back the urge to spit and snarl and concentrates instead on where she has tripped. Her shin bone is poking out at a grotesque angle and she grits her teeth against pain that she can now actually feel, trying to control her breathing and fighting back tears.

“I need…I need help.”

A warm hand on her lower back feels genuinely wonderful, but she pulls away as the tears start to poke through hot and heavy and raw. The gloved hand moves from her back to her chest, presses firmly on her ribcage.

She gasps as something warm and then hot flares underneath, hears an intake of breath in her ear followed by that same low voice.

“Ah, ti manman, you best come with me.”

She is lifted up by strong arms and doesn’t complain as she is held close. She says nothing as she is carried down the street, feeling her eyes grow heavy as she tries to escape the pain in her leg. The broad chest under her chest is warm and smooth, and she breathes in the scent of rum and spice and hair spray.

She feels the rain stop, knows she’s inside again, and feels herself being laid down on a bed. Gentle hands pat a towel against her face and the pain in her leg makes her whimper.

She can smell herbs, candle wax, can hear the rain pattering against the window.

As if her mind decides that it has heard quite enough for one day, she feels herself being to shut down. The last thing she hears as the world slips away is that deep, gentle voice.

“Bon, ok…how you know my uncle?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "where are you going, girl?"  
> "let me help you"  
> "Ah, little mother..."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: canon typical body horror, gore, mentions of alcoholism and abortion and subtle racism.

**Present day**

**Coq Noir**

Laura sleeps.

It’s a fitful, shivering sleep. One that is neither deep enough to be restful, nor light enough to wake from fully.

_She is 7 and curled in her bed, clutching a torn library book, the latest victim of her father’s drinking, along with the couch, her princess headband, and his dignity. She knows the nice librarian with the little glasses and the kind smile will be sweet about it, and she can’t stand the thought of the gentle pity in those wrinkly eyes. She hides it under her pillow and doesn’t cry._

One that leaves her open to memories she hasn’t considered in years, trickling and twisting like they’ve been waiting for an opportunity to call out.

_She is 10 watching her Aunt breastfeed her baby, wonders how it feels to be drained by something you created. She wonders if her mother feels that way, wonders if it’s more so after her father finally left. She wonders if her Aunt feels powerful or diminished; does she disappear as the baby grows? Her mother sees her looking and tells her not to stare._

The rain continues and she sleeps.

She hears voices occasionally, soft and low.

“Got her back here, that’s good.”

“She’s in a bad way.”

“I know baby.” Quiet for a few moments. “You gonna stay?”

“Ki moun ki ti fi a? Kijan li konnen Tonton?”

“He blew through here with her a while back…we’ll talk.”

She wakes later to an empty room, finds warm toast spread with honey, a glass of fresh water with lemon and something that makes it taste of lilacs. She can taste it, really taste it, and she knows she should relish it, but can’t force herself to eat more than a bite.

She lets her head hit the pillow again and disappears.

She dreams.

_The room is bare except for a crib and a tiny window that seems to shrink smaller every time she looks at it. She lights a cigarette, the fumes pluming out to fill the room, and walks closer to the crib._

_She stares inside._

_It’s empty, a simple white sheet and nothing more._

_Except maybe a stain?_

_Laura reaches out a finger to scratch at it._

_Not a stain, a hole._

_A tiny pinprick._

_She scratches at it again, irritated, only to find her finger catching on the edge and getting stuck._

_Something is pulling, dragging, her fingers and then hand seeming to be sucked inside._

_She drops the cigarette, the embers leaving another hole, and then both of her hands are being pulled into this fucking nightmare and she can’t breathe and there’s no sound until the door slams shut behind her._

_She turns in a panic, looks back into the crib, and sees herself swallowed whole._

“Girl!”

She startles awake, wincing as her dead muscles cry out and cramp.

In the light of a single candle she sees a young man sitting in the chair by her bed. Moonlight glints against silver earrings with dangly crucifixes, his chest bare and a beanie perched on his head.

“You OK?”

His voice his familiar and she shakes her head, struggling to clear the sleep from it.

He hands her a cup.

“Shhh, doudou. Drink this, Maman’ll sort you out.”

She accepts the steaming liquid without a thought, drinking deeply and barely registering him taking the cup back before it falls, her head hitting the pillow behind her.

***

_She is 12 watching her mother pour a glass of wine and laugh with Sophie’s mom at their playdate. Sophie still wants to play dolls. She leaves Sophie’s doll in a bath, its head in the sink, and smiles when her mother grips her arm too tightly, saying goodbye through gritted teeth. They are both aware that they won’t be invited back._

She wakes again, alone this time, to the sound of thunder. It is still dark and she finds herself immediately faced with the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Her leg has been bandaged and set, and she’s glad for whatever cement has been used to hold the bone together. When she moves the bandage she sees nothing more than a line of tight stitching far finer than anything Mr Ibis could do. The wound is closed with no sign of bone, and covered in a thick salve that smells like fat and herbs but seems to help keep her skin knitted together. 

She stares at it for another beat, wonders what is salve and what is an actual fusing of muscle fibres. She can’t be healed, can only be sewn back together. She struggles to process what she’s seeing and quickly places it in the ‘too hard to consider’ basket.

She sits up, gingerly putting weight on the leg, exhaling in relief when it doesn’t hurt at all.

That’s the Good.

She takes in her surroundings. The room is small and clean, with a small bed, beside table, and chair. There’s a door near the window that might be a bathroom. The wall near the door has shelves packed with candles and jars, the scent of herbs and wax in the air. It’s not unpleasant.

She recognises the room; although the candles are now unlit, it’s exactly where Brigitte had examined her. She exhales, this time with less relief. She is back in this place, and worse, has nowhere else she can go.

That’s the Bad.

She turns to the door and freezes in place at the sight of her reflection in the full length mirror there.

She tries desperately to focus on her face, on how alive she looks at this moment, on her pretty tousled hair and big brown eyes and full lips. She swallows at the sight of her autopsy lines, still holding together firmly, and begs her eyes to go no further.

But she’s never been one for taking orders, and so she forces herself to look at where her stomach has grown.

Laura had been 27 when she died.

Just at the point in life where friends were starting to think about next steps. Marriages, house purchases…families. 

She’d attended more than one baby shower, rolling her eyes at the games and trying to buy gifts for the women themselves rather than anything baby related. Massages or books and, once, an admittedly ill-thought out wine of the month subscription.

She wasn’t great at it, but she wasn’t stone; she had loved the big happy smiles, the swollen bellies and the walk. She’d loved snuggling newborns when they arrived and hearing the blunt honesty of young children.

So it’s not like she’s never seen, or touched, a baby.

She gets them in the abstract; they’re soft and smell nice and sometimes they snuggle. She doesn’t really get kids but likes teenagers, all sulk and sass she could relate to.

But understanding something in the abstract is not wanting it for yourself.

Ever watched someone eat something they love, or dance along to a song you’re not fond of? You can feel that wonderful, vicarious joy and be genuinely happy for them, but know that’s not something for you.

There’s nothing wrong with that; it can be truly lovely to watch someone else drenched in and moved by the song.

But it wasn’t a song meant for her.

She thinks perhaps it’s one of the few things that isn’t just a matter of selfishness; she’s never given any thought to the prospect of parenthood in any way other than a refusal to inflict herself on a person who didn’t get a choice about being there. 

_She is 13 and hasn’t seen her father in a long time. Her mother won’t speak about him, ostensibly too hurt by the abandonment after so many years of ‘help’ and support’. Laura thinks maybe he left because after years of being enabled, survival may have required escape. She wonders if he has a new life, a new family. She finds she doesn’t really care._

She can’t imagine being someone’s…adult. Seems like a special brand of cruelty.

Call it self-awareness, or self-knowledge, or maybe just one of the few areas in which she’s very comfortable admitting her limitations and living entirely within them. Call it her last barrier, this body that is hers, that she has been able to risk callously and at times destructively, but one that is hers entirely. 

_“Well it was my life to fuck up.”_

Regardless of the reason, it’s something she knew in life like nothing else – that path was not for her. 

And so she turns to the side and stares at the Ugly.

The visual is jarring, and for someone who has held together the flapping skin of her ribcage before, jarring is a high bar.

She’s used to a certain silhouette. When she was little her mother used to call her dainty and delicate and Laura had tried so very, very hard to seem that because that’s what people wanted. Rosy cheeks and porcelain skin and a thin little body on a tiny little woman. Delicate little doll.

Maybe that’s (one) reason she loved it when the big guys got riled and rough.

_She is 14 and her size still makes her look twelve, despite what the greasy guy running the gas station tells her. She lets him touch her in exchange for some cigarettes, smokes the first one in a park and vomits. That night she finally gets her first period and stares at the rusty stain in her underwear before throwing them away. She has another cigarette that night and this time doesn’t puke._

She hasn’t dressed up since that first night when she’d tried to remind Shadow that she was worth touching, tried to have him see her and feel her and remember her.

_“Did it taste like ashes and vomit?”_

Since the spectacular failure of that night she’s let herself be comfortable, pushed forward.

She has been steadfastly comfortable as possible in her decay, her decrepit body, been able to tell herself that this is temporary. Every slimy, loosened piece of skin, every fly flicked away, all are acceptable because one day they will be horrible memories as she enjoys being back in and of herself.

She lets go of dressing up, lets go of the act of civilisation and the humanity of primping.

But even letting go of that act, she’s still her…she likes being seen. She likes having things her way. She has relished the rejuvenation, enjoyed being able to be back to herself in looks for a while at least. The sight of her reflection with smooth skin and bouncy curls and pink lips had been welcomed.

She likes how she looks.

Or she did.

The sight now is strange, like someone has taken a small bowl and stuck it to her. It’s not huge but on her thin frame it is a definite intrusion, looking every bit the unexpected and unwanted addition that it is.

Like someone has jammed two pictures together and they’re really not meant to fit.

Like it doesn’t belong to her.

_She is 17, waiting from Mina to leave the clinic, ignoring the texts from Mina’s boyfriend on her phone asking when he can see her again. Her friend comes out walking stiffly but looking lighter and happier than she has in a week, and Laura steps on the butt of her cigarette and shoots her a smile. She ignores Mark’s messages. For now._

She briefly considers touching it but thinks better, struggles to create some kind of shield with her mind so she can pretend it’s no longer there.

She doesn’t want to be here. In the spare room of a bare where she gave up her truth and felt betrayed and vented her fury and then never saw him alive again.

She curls back into the bed and feels very, very alone.

As the rain hits the window her body decides now is a wonderful time to produce extra moisture, and Laura begins to cry.

When she has let out the last heaving gulp, the last pathetic whimper, the last lost sigh somewhere between sadness and sleep, she finally drifts away into dreamless slumber.

***

She wakes in afternoon sunlight and knows she needs to shower.

The chair by her bed now has several thick towels and she grimaces, unsure how to feel about this development. She briefly considers storming out but knows that’s not exactly useful to her right now, so instead settles for a shower.

The other door indeed leads to a small ensuite, just a toilet and shower, but after what feels like a few days in bed she is so grateful for the water it seems like a private waterfall. She feels the heat of it sluicing through her hair, feels herself cleaner than she has in some time.

There’s fresh soap that has a clean, earthy smell to it, and she stares at the suds running over her. As she washes herself she pretends her stomach hasn’t grown more, watches the water running rivulets over her breasts and down further, and thinks of glaciers. She ignores the urge to scrub harder, to see if her reality is so blurred at this point that she can rub away the evidence of an opportunity lost and a burden gained.

She avoids the mirror, wringing out her hair and wrapping the towel awkwardly around her torso.

She leaves the bathroom and freezes.

The man leaning against the bedroom door isn’t a day over 24, muscular arms crossed in front of a bare, broad chest, still wearing a beanie, now with neon green tracksuit pants slung low. The colour is so obnoxious it makes her eyes hurt.

His skin is as dark as Samedi’s, and as she looks closer there is something familiar about his eyes.

“Do…do I know you?”

He grins and his eyes sparkle and suddenly it clicks. Rum and smoke and the scent of hairspray. She narrows her eyes.

“You…you brought me back here when I hurt my leg.”

His grin widens as if proud that she’s figured it out so quickly. “Yes.”

“You were here in the middle of the night watching me sleep.”

He nods, not a smidgeon of shame on his handsome face.

She struggles to find some anger but his open and genuine amusement make it hard for her to say much.

“I’m…I’m Laura.”

“You can call me Nibo.”

Before she can ask anything further he gestures to her dress, now clean and folded on the chair by the bed.

"Come on, they're waitin'."

He leaves her to dress and she meets him in the hallway. He leads her out to where the bar is being set up for the evening rush. He doesn’t speak, and Laura finds she doesn’t mind the silence for the moment, head too full of questions.

In the main bar Brigitte and Samedi move around one another like they’ve done this dance a thousand times and relish every step. She watches as they shoot one another smiles, as Samedi murmurs something in a low voice that makes Brigitte laugh, as Brigitte asks him something and he pauses thoughtfully before shaking his head.

Brigitte seems to notice her first, moving out from behind the bar while Samedi stays behind, watching her warily.

Brigitte addresses Nibo without looking away from Laura. 

“Baby, grab me some more eggs and another case of Wrought Iron.”

As he leaves he shoots Laura a grin and a wink, and she finds herself smiling despite everything, and wishing he wouldn’t leave.

When he’s gone she watches the Loa, who seem to be waiting for something. She struggles with something to fill the air between them, the afternoon glare cutting through the windows and making her wince like there’s a spotlight on her face.

“I’m…I’m sorry I ran away.”

The Loa are unmoved and unimpressed, and she supposes they have little use or need for the apology.

_“Don’t stoop. Someone tried to raise you with refined manners, dead girl, and failed.”_

Another memory bubbles up, one strong enough to make her wince.

_Her mother, hissing between her teeth for Laura to sit up straight while Shadow watches bemusedly and picks at dinner. His smile sinks when he says something about Durkheim and her mother starts in on a non sequitur about gang violence and ethnic businesses popping up everywhere. Shadow frowns uncomfortably, looks to his wife as her mother fills his glass with a bright smile._

_Laura, back straight and hair in a neat bun, says nothing._

The illusion of manners, the deception of refinement, the microaggression of conversation.

And now she’s here, where refined manners and hollow apologies are ignored entirely. Only truth has any currency, and even that’s a fickle beast at best.

“I…I don’t know where to go.”

It’s a statement so obvious it doesn’t deserve much of a response.

Again, neither answers her and she hates this a little bit, hates being forced to fill the silence, but they seem disinclined to make her more comfortable by leading her. Instead they watch until she actually asks for what she needs.

She inhales deeply and releases the breath.

“Can I stay here a while?”

Brigitte studies her a moment before turning to meet Samedi’s eyes, and the two reach an unspoken agreement.

Samedi nods and throws Laura an apron.

“You can start tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ki moun ki ti fi a? Kijan li konnen Tonton?” - "Who is the girl? How does she know Uncle?"  
> Doudou - hard to translate but in French this is something deeply and powerfully beloved (like a special blanket or teddy), in Creole it can be read more as sweetheart.


	8. Chapter 8

**Present day**

**Coq Noir**

She studies her reflection in the mirror.

Bare, it’s obvious. Her eyes can’t go anywhere else. That odd, small but defined bulge on her midsection catches her like a magnet.

She turns away, breaks its hold.

The light in the little room is fading as the afternoon sun disappears, making her pale skin look gold, slipping over her hair in a caress.

Her floral dress hangs on the back of a chair but she doesn’t want feminine, nothing soft or floaty. Instead she reaches for the assortment of clothes she’d found on the chair when she returned to the little room.

She pulls on a tank top and shorts, the top loose enough that a person couldn’t tell just by looking at her, cool enough to spare her from the heat.

She ties her boots, ignoring the oddly full feeling in her stomach that stops her from bending over properly.

She stands and studies herself in the mirror again, seeing shades of a young woman she thought she knew. She ignores the gash in her leg and walks away.

***

The bar is warm, surprisingly so.

Which is good, because she fucking hates the cold.

It’s not just the temperature. She is struck again by the warmth here, the wood and resin, the fairy lights and fabrics. It makes for a combination of cosy and sensual; somewhere to curl up and somewhere to be curled around someone.

Laura runs a hand over etched markings on a wooden beam, fingers tracing out thin lines.

“Best not stand around lookin’ too useless, hey?”

From where he’s hauling a crate in from the backroom, Nibo chuckles at his own joke.

He sets the crate behind the bar and stops to roll a thin cigarette. He’s tall, a shade shorter than Samedi perhaps, and leaner. She watches him inhale, wonders who exactly taught him to roll cigarettes, decides she doesn’t want to ask.

He’s changed the garish neon track pants for tight black jeans, silver crucifixes still dangling from his ears and more chains than she’s seen in a long time.

“You look different today.”

He pauses to watch her for a moment and she wonders when talking became so fucking awkward. She used to be good at this.

“Um…how often do you…”

She’s not even sure what she’s asking, thinking of sequins and gorgeously garish makeup, and he quirks a brow at her as he finishes her sentence.

“Dress real pretty?” He exhales a plume of smoke. “Everyday, doudou, jus’ look at me.”

There’s a childish, teasing quality to his voice as he sits down, stretching out long legs to let his boots hit the table top and looking far too comfortable. He hasn’t bothered with a shirt, despite the slowly growing number of patrons, and from the looks he’s getting nobody really minds.

He’s handsome, for sure, but there’s something else about his mannerisms, something free and young and wild, something a little attention seeking and all too happy to get it.

Like he’s ready for mischief.

She can’t help but like him.

“So…you work for the Loa?”

The question makes his eyes widen and his lips twitch, his voice conspiratorial as he nods.

“Somethin’ like that.”

Before she can ask more his smirk is knocked away by the sharp voice approaching.

“Baby, you best be catchin’ your breath ‘fore headin’ back. You promised you’d be on mussel duty.”

Brigitte moves past in a blur, somehow managing to admonish Nibo, hand him a drink, knock his boots off the table and kiss him on the head at the same time. It’s an effortless, careless kind of care that feels very foreign.

As Brigitte’s whirlwind keeps moving Laura finds herself with more questions, but Nibo shoots her a grin.

“It’s a _family_ business, chere.”

Something clicks into place and then there are so very many more questions.

She is given no time to keep prying as Brigitte dumps a tray in her hands and gestures towards the bar with a flick. When Laura wrestles with the awkwardly balanced round of beers Nibo doesn’t bother to hide the bark of laughter as he finishes his drink.

“You ain’t ever waited a table, have you?”

She shrugs. “I had other things going on.”

Card tables, attempted robbery, the usual.

“Too good for it?”

His eyes are sharp but so is her tongue, and she doesn’t feel like playing.

“Isn’t everyone?”

He studies her a moment, the mirth momentarily replaced by a genuine curiosity and something dangerously close to pity.

“You really believe that?”

She’s not sure if it’s a question or a statement.

She shrugs. “Sure.”

“Then why would you let anyone do it for you?”

She is briefly frozen by the question being turned back on her, and he doesn’t bother waiting for her response, moving on to do as Brigitte has asked. Laura struggles to move for a split second, deeply uncomfortable with the question and all that it implies, staring at the tray in her hands.

Something in her is stinging and she can’t tell if it’s pride, or guilt, or embarrassment. It makes her want to set the tray down and hide away, makes her want to pretend she didn’t hear him.

She looks up to see Brigitte watching her with a guarded expression, and Laura breathes deeply. She doesn’t look away from Brigitte’s sharp eyes as she feels the sting lessen, shift, turn into something calmer and more permanent against her skin.

She straightens and turns towards the crowd, missing the nod of approval from her watcher.

Time passes quickly.

Her tray is soon emptied and she finds a million empty glasses and bottles to keep her occupied.

She listens to laughter, to Brigitte’s sharp and foul tongue ribbing customers like old friends, to Samedi’s deep amusement and flirtation. They have minor, mocking arguments on an hourly basis, usually commenced by Samedi’s wandering eyes and ended with Brigitte’s surprisingly imaginative and somewhat amused threats. An old script, lovingly adhered to.

Nibo seems made of smoke, shifting between people like it’s nothing, leaning over tables with a grin made of mischief and smooth words on his tongue. A young man with dark eyes who reminds her of Salim gives him shy smiles as Nibo dances with a blonde tourist in her 40s, making her laugh as he thrusts his hips in time to the drums.

He catches Laura’s eye, holding up a $20 with a smug expression, and she can’t help but smile.

She slowly finds a rhythm, finds the easiest ways to wind between tables and groups, finds a smile that seems to work on patrons as they dump orders, empties, and tips on her tray. She focuses on the pleasure of tired muscles, smiles and ribs customers, pushes her tips into a jar because frankly what else will she be doing with them anyway.

At the end of the night she barely realises when the bar is fully emptied, only clueing in when gentle hands direct her to an empty table with a cold glass of water scented with lemon and something else.

She accepts a bowl of fresh mussels, pan-fried and doused in a red sauce with enough heat to make her eyes water, and relishes the physical sensations as Brigitte taps herbs into her food.

Time feels oddly liminal now, like it has slowed and stilled, like she’s somewhere foreign and can’t find her feet, or somewhere familiar that feels like home. Both, or neither.

The Loa sit and eat and drink.

They speak quietly around her about everyday things like the patrons that evening, a faulty tap that needs fixing, an event the next street over. It’s comfortable and quiet and Laura’s head is spinning. She feels too tired to speak, instead settling for listening, focusing on the shift between English and Creole, trying to place words by context and failing miserably.

When Nibo reaches his arm over the back of her chair she doesn’t stop herself from leaning against warm skin.

Samedi glances at her.

"Nibo, ou bezwen gade soti pou li ... li pa konnen kisa ki pral rive." ( _You need to watch out for her…she doesn’t know what is going to happen.)_

Nibo’s arm tightens around her slightly.

“Li jèn…ou te bezwen rele pou mwen.” _(She is young…you should have called for me.)_

There’s an admonishment in his tone, but she has not clue what he’s saying. Samedi doesn’t appear put out.

“Tonton asked for a compact…I agreed; she wanted to walk among the living again.”

“Sanble tankou ki te tounen byen.” ( _Looks like that turned out well.)_

The sarcasm in Nibo’s voice makes Laura twitch. Samedi runs his eyes over her again, and she can neither name nor process what she sees there as he speaks. In another world, it might have been sadness.

“Lavi li te ... vòlè.” _(Her life was…stolen)_

Brigitte clucks her tongue. “To sleep, now.”

The arm around her shoulders tightens and Laura finds herself being stood up slowly, feels her eyes growing heavy.

“Come, ti sè, time for bed.”

Laura finds herself stumbling down the hallway,

She is asleep before her head hits the pillow.

***

_She dreams._

_The sun against her forearm, a cigarette between her fingers and the wind in her hair._

_A big, warm hand on her thigh and someone humming next to her._

_She smiles into afternoon sunlight as the sun slowly sinks._

_“Think we’ll make it?”_

_She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”_

_She closes her eyes for a moment, listens to him hum._

_She opens them and the car is stopped, the world is dark around her, the driver’s side door wide open._

_She is alone._

_She feels something sharp and horrific piercing at her stomach, and looks down to see a bloodbath between her thighs._

She wakes in a pool of sweat she shouldn’t be able to produce, tearing her hands away from where they are cradling her stomach and struggling to take in air that she doesn’t need.


	9. Chapter 9

**Present day**

**Coq Noir**

The ravens settle themselves comfortable on the fence of the alleyway. They are in no rush.

***

Laura learns that her chilli, her famous chilli, is terrible.

She has been here a week and thinks perhaps a payback meal would be a better gesture than words. She ignores Samedi’s slightly territorial twitching when she encroaches on his bench space, finds a modern metal pot at the back of a cupboard and gets to work.

The results are…surprising.

Nibo isn’t trying to be cruel but between the spitting and his laughter she narrows her eyes.

“Girl, I’m sorry but…this is mush. Where's the fire?” At her expression he struggles to pull back somewhat.

“Oh come now…ain’t no man in the world been won over wit’ this.”

She’s not defensive.

“My husband used to say it was the best chilli in the world.”

Ok, maybe a little defensive.

Nibo chuckles. “He lie to you a lot?”

From the other end of the bench Baron Samedi lets out a sharp bark of laughter, and doesn’t even have the grace to look ashamed at the look she shoots him.

“No…no he never lied to me.”

_In bed on a Sunday morning, refusing to let him leave._

Nibo and Samedi study her for a moment before sharing a look, and Laura feels very small. Something passes between them and Samedi nods as if in acquiescence, leaving them alone in the bar as Nibo pulls out a battered, deep pot and moves aside the shiny pot of chilli. 

“Come, little Laura Moon. Time to learn.”

Nibo shows her how to prepare a proper roux, rich and brown, slaps at her hands when she picks the wrong spices, makes her laugh when she exclaims over the flavour by impersonating her.

She falls in love with seafood gumbo. 

***

She learns the basics. 

He shows her how to season a cast iron skillet, how to shuck mussels, and when she shares her own mixed boil of seafood his exclamation of approval makes her feel very warm inside. 

Almost nourished. 

***

Time keeps creeping forward. 

Laura begins to vomit.

It’s a curious, wholly disgusting thing to be bringing up actual food instead of maggots and blood. She finds herself staring morbidly into the toilet bowl, wondering what it means to have a dead body undergoing biological processes associated with…life.

She wipes her mouth and stops herself thinking on it further, but even death doesn’t let her avoid the misnomer of morning sickness, and she finds herself with plenty of time to stare.

***

“So…why do you call him Uncle?”

Nibo pauses as he inspects the egg he’s plucked from the ground.

Laura has quickly learned that the back door of the Coq Noir can be a fickle thing, leading alternatively to a storeroom or an alley way. It seemed to have its own moods, or at least it was determined not to let Laura decide, perhaps it was enjoying the mischief. Today was the newest surprise when the door opened to reveal a courtyard full of chickens and a pissed off looking goat.

Nibo has moved his way past the goat with more than a little respect, stopping to pick up and stroke at the dark black plumage of a rooster before getting to the task of collecting eggs.

“He just…is.”

She scuffs her boot against the ground.

“Hard to imagine him with any kind of family.”

Nibo shrugs. “Don’t think he thought of it like that. Just sorta…blew through when he could, or would, or shouldn’t have.”

There’s a smile to his tone now.

“Never could stay that long.” He finds another egg, holding it up victoriously. “First his feet, and then workin’ for the man.”

Laura purses her lips at the mention of Wednesday and Nibo nods.

“I see you’re familiar.”

“We’ve had run ins.”

“You and half the world.” Nibo accepts the egg she hands out as he continues.

“Like I said, he’d never stay long. But when he wasn’t lost, or workin’, he’d come by. Think he was always…wanted.”

There’s something warm and a little lascivious to his tone. Laura raises her eyebrows, remembers (vaguely) Sweeney being led away by Brigitte.

“So…that wasn’t just a once off thing?”

Nibo’s laughter suggests that her attempt to sound nonchalant has failed. 

“You askin’ for a friend?”

She pretends not to hear him and he chuckles again.

“He ain’t my type, doudou, but he’s been wanted. Sure.”

She watches him for a moment and knows Nibo isn’t just talking about sex. Strange to imagine Sweeney as someone welcomed anywhere. Big and too loud and obnoxious and spewing his peculiar brand of sarcastic insight all over the place. She wonders why he came to be someone they wanted, wonders if she already knows.

She wants to ask more. To ask if Nibo misses _him_ , how they spent their time together, what he was like when he wasn’t being dragged on misadventures or orchestrating his own ridiculous demise.

She plucks another egg, stroking hesitantly at a small hen with brown and red feathers. 

Nibo is quiet now as he carefully pulls the eggs together, and Laura grows uncomfortable under the weight of his sadness. She thinks she should lay a hand on his shoulder, stroke his arm, murmur something gentle and reassuring.

Instead she hands Nibo another egg.

Later that night Laura serves drinks and cheers as Nibo performs in a gloriously huge red wig and a dress of royal purple, and wonders if red hair is genetic. 

***

The days pass and Laura learns how to balance a tray without spilling drinks, learns how to mix cocktails and help build sandwiches and dust the beignets with powdered sugar quickly without leaving residue everywhere.

Laura watches Brigitte dance during celebrations.

The first time she watches, only watches.

It’s a joyful, sensuous thing, all free hips and shifting rolls. An indulgence of footwork in time with the drums.

The next time she lets her hand beat gently against her side in time with the rhythm.

The third time Nibo pulls her to the floor and she accepts the mocking laughter aimed at her own lean hips and awkward movement, hampered by her developing stomach.

She feels the drums against her skin and laughs.

Later she leaves her room, the darkness of the bar offset only by a few lights. Nibo is leaning in the doorway and she peers around him curiously, following his eyes to the couple in the centre of the room. They dance slow, well-practiced circles, a beat only the two of them can hear.

***

She finds she likes the nights best, after the last customer has been ushered away. Sometimes the Loa are nowhere to be found, she suspects tangling with humans in some wild frenzy of bodies and skin and secrets.

Mostly though, the night ends at the chef’s table. A meal and laughter. Sometimes it’s just Nibo, sometimes one or both of the Loa. Her favourite is when all three are there, lapsing between English and Creole and fuck knows what else, telling teasing jokes or wild stories about other families.

Laura learns of the Rada, the Kongo and the Nago. She hears stories of the Petra and tries to keep up with the alternating ancestral reverence and mocking mischief.

Sometimes a story will be sharply stopped, as if it encroached too closely on a painful memory. So often that hole seemed to take the shape of someone oversized and overburdened.

Mostly though the stories fill her almost as well as the food she picks at, and when she stumbles to bed it’s with a head full of welcome distractions.

***

She has been here over a month now.

It’s late, Nibo is out for the night and Brigitte is nowhere to be seen.

The bar is closed and Laura sits awkwardly across from Samedi, his jacket on the back of the chair as he writes numbers in a ledger and smokes his cigar. It’s a strange sight to associate with him, something jarringly normal against the backdrop of fairy lights and his tall hat casting shadows that seem to move of their own accord.

Still, with his arms bare and his face focused, she can’t help but stare.

The way her body changes is awkward and strange. A loose top no longer conceals her stomach, and eyes that would previously have lingered pass over her as if she’s not there, or register interest only to move along once they’ve sighted her mid-section.

She hasn’t gone this long without being touched since Shadow was in prison.

How do you speak to someone who devoured you and the abandoned you to face yourself on an astral plane? Someone who you’ve only viewed through the lens of ‘yes, please’ and ‘fucking hell what happened last night’, but who you’re now seeing attend to his business, who is seeing you with a belly full of-

She stops herself, regroups. Crosses her legs and leans forward over the table.

Samedi glances up at her, brow quirking before looking back down at his paper.

“Need somethin’, chere?”

“I...”

I want to feel like me again. I want hands on me. I want to feel heat and rough hands and teeth. I want to pretend this isn’t what is happening for a few moments.

Please let me pretend.

Something painful and sharp has settled in her chest, the same panicked feeling that made her reach for the balm of Robbie; a grotesquely easy distraction against something bigger. Make it hurt.

She cannot finish her sentence.

He watches her for a moment and stands, moving to the bar to pour himself a drink. He doesn’t rush, moving slowly back to the table to sit at the chair next to her, leaning forward.

“How ‘bout a bedtime story?”

She blinks.

**Louisiana, 1700**

_He is patient._

_Has to be, given how fucking long this is taking._

_He's not known for his patience, that's not what they need from him. They need smoke and shadows and a gravedigger. Someone to celebrate and say the things they wish they could, cursing and spitting and grinning his way through the wild world to reassure them that they still can._

_But he’s tired of being stolen from, and this graveyard is as good as any to catch the culprit, so patient he shall be._

_It’s not that she’s new. He’s heard whispers, caught hints._

_It’s not even the first time he’s gone looking for her, adjusting his top hat at the crossroads, slinking through burial sites. He’s caught glimpses, sure._

_It’s an energy, like a dying ember, something lost and frightened. He’s tasted blood in the air, fear and betrayal. He’s tasted something denied, something forced to splinter to protect itself, something as close to broken as dead things can become._

_He’s tried reaching out once or twice, twisting his hands through graveyard mist to call it to him. But that ember has sparked and burnt, and he’s not yet found the root cause._

_He hadn’t concerned himself at first, wondering if it would fade away entirely, wondering why that thought concerned him._

_But ever since those new arrivals (indentured servants, not slaves, their kind are never fucking slaves) were brought over, the whispers have become more…solid. The edgy, defensive energy around the place has shifted into something more confident, more comfortable in staking territory. Now his offerings are disappearing, women calling another name into the darkness, and those goddamn dolls appearing around the place in their hands._

_The ember is being fanned, blown on, tended to lovingly…and he wonders if it will burst into flame._

_He waits for the woman to leave, her dark curls covered by a scarf, her offering left at the Laveau tomb. It’s above ground, protective against the swampy nature of this land, and twirls his cane as he waits for the air to settle, to say he’s alone._

_He strolls over, hands in his pockets, cane tucked under his arm, and waits another beat before reaching for the bowl of rum._

_“I’ll thank you ta take your hands off my offering.”_

_The voice is a lilting thing, but he can hear echoes of his homeland as well, something confused and on the cusp of transition._

_He smiles to himself. His patience always pays off._

_“Think you’re mistaken, chere. This ain’t for you.”_

_He turns and for a split second he’s taken aback by eyes like shards of green sea glass, a tumble of red curls around thin shoulders. Her white blouse is dirty, skirt threadbare, and he thinks she’d look better in black, better in purple, better bare._

_She sets her hands on her hips, but he recognises bravado when he sees it._

_There’s something bruised and biting about her, like a dog ready to snap at someone too near to its bone. She should look weak, maybe even scared, but she’s all too ready to lash out, and he sees a kind of wild darkness that is looking for its home._

_She smiles, and he feels himself tumble hard over a cliff, well aware there could be rocks below._

_“Well then, go ahead.”_

_She gestures graciously towards the bowl and he nods, not breaking eye contact as he brings the offering to his lips. For a moment he enjoys the heat of cheap rum, only to sputter and cough when the heat intensifies to a burn._

_“Dieu, the fuck is in there-“_

_“Peppers, probably.”_

_She shoots him another smile and this one has sharper edges, mischief lighting up her mocking eyes. She shrugs those thin shoulders again, moving to perch elegantly on the tomb. She crosses her legs and his eyes are drawn to smooth skin as her skirts part, her voice full of amusement._

_“Suppose it’s an acquired taste.”_

_He sucks his teeth, bringing out a cigar to clear the surprise heat from his head. It’s not that he doesn’t love a good hot pepper…he just wasn’t expecting his fucking rum to have them._

_“And how exactly d’you acquire that one, chere?”_

_That bruised look is back, her arms crossing protectively over her ribcage as if to conceal a weakness there._

_He doesn’t like it, prefers when she’s biting at him, but her tone is just as defiant, as if daring him to feel pity._

_“They tried it one time, found I liked it.”_

_“You didn’t know?”_

_She glares at him and he holds her gaze. She is lost, splintered, flickering._

_“Who…who are you?”_

_She sighs, laying back on the tomb dramatically, one long leg dangling over the side as she crooks the other knee. For a moment she is quiet, and he wonders if the stars she’s staring at look the same in her homeland, wonders if she even remembers properly._

_“What a question.”_

_She shifts, the move sending more of her skirt to the side, and he grits his teeth, tries to avoid the distraction of her slim legs and long fingers._

_He looks away from her body only to find those green eyes sparkling with amusement, a sly smile on her lips. He gestures to the now empty bowl with his cane._

_“Why’s she leavin’ that for you?”_

_She sits back up and shrugs, the movement sending a curl over her shoulder, and he resists the urge to lick his lips._

_“Got a leanbh…she’s…with child. Another little one at home sick.”_

_He suspected as much, has felt her lingering in birthing rooms where the mother has been close to gone and he’s wondered whether to dig her grave. He’s followed her heat as she haunts some of the plantations, sticking by women’s quarters and leaving chills up the spine of those who benefit from enslavement. He’s felt her watching over where the bodies were left, felt her walk the same path as him, making sure they find their way home._

_He shakes his head, more curious than angry._

_“We can protect her just fine, why-“_

_“Maybe she wanted a woman’s touch.”_

_She’s quick, he can see that, see her daring him to suggest that the women of this place wouldn’t want that fire and those flashing eyes on their side, watching over them while men grabbed and took and harmed and brutalised. Wouldn’t want that fierceness looking out for their little ones, by their bedsides when they were in pain, at their side when they wandered to the next world._

_The bruised look is gone now, her splintered self-fused together in the heat of her as she focuses on what her people need. He feels something pulls at him, something drawn to the deep protectiveness and power, something about her flames making him want to warm or burn himself against her._

_He can smell magic about her, something faded or muted but still there, and he shakes his head._

_“Why you? Why your kind-“_

_“There is no my kind.” She cuts him off sharply, spits out the words as a barrier, a rejection. He has the impression of a wound being poked at, a flare of agony. She inhales, releases the breath slowly, before tilting her head towards him. “Got brought over, same as you.”_

_He bites his cigar for a moment, watching her thoughtfully. He wants to tell her it doesn’t matter what the splinters look like, what she’s forgotten or lost or been denied. He wants to tell her to try more peppers and burn the ground around her until it feels like her own, heat her splinters until they fuse again._

_He moves away from magic and steps closer, uses the tip of his cane to gesture to the crucifix around her neck._

_“What do they need another saint for? You going to show ‘em how to pray better?”_

_He’s aware that he’s pushing her but he has to know, has to see for himself._

_She is off the tomb and inches away from his face in a split second._

_“I’m not the fucking Church.”_

_She hisses it out with such hurt and bile and venom that he can’t help the grin on his face. She’s foulmouthed and perfect._

_He wonders if she wears the cross to warn herself or as an act of disobedience. As he considers her he takes out his cigar, using the other hand to stroke the silver chain, barely touching smooth skin underneath._

_“Well, ain’t that somethin’.”_

_She seems to realise how close she’s moved but doesn’t back town, keeps her chin tipped up defiantly. He can see something older than the Church in her eyes, see something drawn of magic and memory rather than an institution._

_He takes note of the bare inch of air between them, of the glint in her green eyes, of the smell of rum on her breath, and doesn't stop the slow grin._

_Her eyes flick to his lips and for a moment she seems to lean forward, but before he can taste her she’s suddenly back on that tomb, lean legs crossed and a look of satisfaction on her face…and his hand empty._

_She holds his cigar up like a prize, blowing on the end and then taking an experimental puff and releasing a plume of smoke into the air._

_He moves closer, hands back in his pockets, wary of invading her space but needing to feel the heat of her skin again._

_“Chere, if you wanted a smoke of my cigar, you coulda just asked…”_

_She doesn’t blush at the innuendo, doesn’t look away from the stogie’s bright orange embers but smiles to herself, something pleased and private._

_“Guess I’m open to trying new things.”_

_She meets his eyes with a look that is sin and wickedness incarnate and as he moves closer he admits to himself that he might be in trouble._

_Happily so._

_He stops in front of the tomb, waits a beat before her legs uncross, before she permits him further into her space._

_“Maybe you should try dancin’.”_

_She watches him as if waiting for mockery but he’s deadly serious and he doesn’t bother to hide it. He resists the urge to trace his hands up her thighs, aware that she’s just as likely to slap him as she is to let him taste her._

_He wants her._

_Has wanted her since he first felt her, a hissing ember too afraid to be captured, to defiant to extinguish, all fire and grit and something darkly sensuous swirling beneath the surface. He wants to see her without the bruises, wants to see what she’ll carve out for herself, on her terms. Wants to be next to her while she does it._

_She strokes long fingers up his jacket and down his chest, pressing her hand against his heart as if to test him for truth by its beats._

_“You’d dance with me?”_

_He knows then that she feels it too, must have for some time. The whispers tying them together, the hints of how the story is being told, cool graveyard mist and flames. Her question isn’t a plea, but something warns him against any trickery now, something says he’s being offered a precious gift and to treat it as such or risk…causing hurt._

_And because of that he finds the answer comes as easily to him as any other part of his nature, his existence._

_His eyes flick to her lips and he waits for her to move the last inch, breathing a promise against her mouth before sealing both their fates._

_“Forever.”_

_She is gone in the morning and he finds himself fine with the idea of the chase._

_The next time he finds her she’s leading the banda, thin hips swivelling as women around her move in wild synchronicity._

_One woman sees him at the corner of the circle, catches his line of sight, and he raises an eyebrow as she catches him staring. She whispers to a friend and he can feel their story shift. When he looks back into the circle Brigitte smiles at him, raises a cigar and lets a plume of smoke envelope the women around her._

_And their stories become one._

Laura stares as he presses out his cigar.

There are no handprints on her body and she’s nowhere close to cumming, and yet somehow she feels sated.

She watches him watching her. His doesn’t look away and she sees the graveyard in his eyes and the smoke around his being and she knows. Knows he would take her and chase the feeling down, knows that his story has been neither a deflection, nor warning, nor a sign of disinterest. Instead he has given her something else, something more intimate and quiet. Something that sex can’t provide; a window into the who, and the why, and the how of their being.

“Well...fuck me.”

Samedi watches her for a moment and then bursts into laughter, rich and coming from deep in his belly, and soon she’s tumbling over the same edge with him.

They laugh at the ridiculousness of now and they laugh at her utter lack of articulateness and then they laugh some more because it feels so fucking good to laugh.

Laura feels something tight within her ease.

***

Laura sleeps deeply that night.

_She’s warm, and safe, looking out of a window to a brightly lit city scape by night. It’s beautiful, bright_

_Big, warm hands wrap around her waist, rest on her swollen stomach._

_“Get back in the fuckin’ bed.”_

_She lets herself ignore him and enjoy the cityscape for a few more minutes, only to be hauled up into a cradle hold and carried back into their darkened bedroom._

_She wakes to a body just cresting into orgasm, and as she comes down from her release she lets sleep take her over before the tears do._

_***_

She looks at herself in the mirror, turns this way and that.

She rests shaking hands against her stomach and keeps them there.

“Hi.”

***

The ravens watch, and the ravens wait. Soon.


	10. Chapter 10

**Present day**

**Coq Noir**

A million years ago she had known what coffee tasted like and which sex would bore her and how much she was willing to tolerate it. She tried different foods and watched shitty tv shows and worked her job and found mild pleasure in learning the card tricks until even that had faded.

Slowly the colour of new experiences leeched and the possibility leeched and the fairy tales were all bullshit and there was nothing new to want to experience.

A million years ago she had stared at a can of bug spray and known it was a good idea. What else are you meant to do when the grey stretches on forever?

Then she’d got her wish and found the grey so much more…unacceptable. Beacons of light became bread crumb trails and then, even when those had rejected her entirely, she still wanted what she was owed.

A life. Colour. Curiosity.

Laura lays in her bed and listens to the rain on the roof.

She doesn’t want to be here…right?

She ignores her own question and settles on what she _does_ know.

She doesn't want to be _this_. The butt of some joke, some cliché ‘got what's coming to her’ shitty ending to a B-story in someone else's tale. 

Is it punishment? Comeuppance? A cruel joke? A learning curve?

If she’s honest with herself she knows, _knows_ , it’s none of those things.

It’s magic, sure, but maybe this is just as random and lesson-less as any other accident of this nature would be.

She lays back on the bed and listens to the rain hitting the roof and imagines the ceiling disappearing so the wet droplets sluice through her, disintegrating her skin and melting her into the mattress. She's thought it a thousand times, a reassuring nothingness, only now she pauses.

She lets one hand slowly slip down to the bump and squeezes her eyes closed as she forces her hand to stay there and spread over the area and wonder what exactly is in there.

Something in her chest squirms, a twisting and shifting, and part of her so clearly not under her control. 

Something shifts and her eyes fly open. A flutter, and then something stronger.

She doesn't want to be sluiced away.

"Who are you?"

No one answers back, to her relief, because frankly lines have to be drawn somewhere. But she lets her hand come back up to clutch at the pillow and keeps it there.

She feels curious.

***

She finds old bookstores and tries reading myths that make no sense except to indicate that the children of deities rarely result in happy endings.

She closes them before finishing, as if reading the whole thing would somehow confirm it as truth, and wonders who she thinks she’s sparing. 

***

It’s late and she’s sipping water while watching Nibo try to unzip his thigh high boots after a night out. He has come home howling an odd mix of songs, lyrically impossible to discern and slipping between too many languages to count. She’d come out to the bar when she’d heard him fighting with the front door and shouting at a big black bird on the powerline.

“Pa gade m'…fuckin’…quote the kònèy FUCK OFF! ALE!”

She’s got him inside. He’s barely able to stay upright and she’s not sure if she’s watching a deity struggling with inebriation or a young man who is a little too far gone on his rum.

He clucks his teeth. “Estipid fuckin’ cunt bòt…” the leather squeaks and he slaps at his ankle so angrily she can’t help the smile on her face. “Fèmen! Fuckin’ kaka.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

He rolls his eyes in a stunning imitation of her. “Pfft, don’t start with me doudou, she’s worse than I am.”

Laura watches him, an incredible shade of red lipstick somehow still precise but one false eyelash a little loose, and can’t help herself. She thinks of graveyards and mist and how he cam to be in this space.

“How did you find them?”

He smiles, first in victory as his boot zip unsticks, and then in relief as he finally frees his foot.

He looks at her, struggling to focus glitter coated his eyes a little, but catches her question eventually. He looks far away for a moment and she wonders where his mind has gone.

“Fanmi mwen? They caught me when I passed.” He sighs. “I always pass. Always real violent. Always too young.”

He stops fiddling with his stockings for a moment, blearily reaching to stroke at her hair gently. There is an anger in his movements, controlled and contained but all too apparent, and she feels strangely moved as he whispers.

“So young.”

He shakes himself off, straightens up.

“This time when I fell they caught me, they found me!” He struggles with a cigarette. “And Maman, ohh, she was so angry.”

His eyes are far away and his smile, drunken and sloppy it may be, was one of genuine pleasure. 

“Wanted to rub myself in it like lotion. So I chose and they chose back and now I call Saturday Papa when I want something.”

He triumphs over his stockings and focuses on his cigarette, humming something to himself as he watches the smoke twist and turn. Laura stares and tries to process the word jumbles that have come pouring out of Nibo as Samedi appears, voice low and more than a little amused.

“Come on, bèl dam, time for all good boys to be in bed.”

Nibo leans comfortably against the taller man, who guides him down the hallway, keeping him from bumping and bumbling too much.

Laura is quiet for a moment, lets her mind drift.

_“My husband used to look at me like I was the sun and the moon.”_

_“And then you married him?”_

_“Ha. And then I fucked it up.”_

_“Hey, you lived your truth. That’s no betrayal.”_

_She grimaces, the alcohol making her feel warm for the first time in weeks, her tongue loosening._

_“Yeah. I have a long history of, um, really shitty impulse control.”_

_She moves to sit on the bench and he stares at her, amused._

_“You betrayed him long before your marriage vows.”_

_Fucking rude._

_“Excuse me?”_

_“You betrayed him when you told him you loved him in the first place.”_

_“She finds herself unwilling or unable to argue, lacking the energy or interest to try to explain._

_She can’t, not really. How do you explain wanting to be the sun and the moon even if you know you’re not, if only because you love being looked at that way?_

_Like you matter? Like you could be that, even though you know, deep down, that you’re really not? Do you lean into it and strive for it? Or do you try desperately to fit a mould made for someone else, caught somewhere between love and resentment?_

_“Poor, poor Laura Moon…so many lies she cannot sleep, so many vows she cannot keep.”_

_His voice is a deep, pleasant sing-song and she wants to be angry but she can’t escape the pleasure of cigarette smoke, his thick arms and sharp grin._

_“Ha, because you and Brigitte are…what, some fucking model of a healthy relationship?”_

_“Oh, Brigitte knows…that with every breath, every cell, I worship only her.”_

_His eyes brook no argument and she finds she believes him, can see the truth spilling from every pore, something dark and intense and a kind of connection she can’t properly fathom behind the words._

_“The most beautiful, interesting, sexy, and power woman I have ever come across.”_

_She swallows, struggles in the presence of those words, that intense awareness, the weight of the honesty._

_“And when she’s not around, I fuck a lot of other women.”_

_She feels warm, hot then. Maybe it’s the peripheral attraction, like being looked at by him, aware that he feels that strongly and deeply about one woman, is a satisfying kind of draw. Like you can bask in a diluted form of that worship because it is so very heightened, runs so very deep._

_She smiles._

_“Hmm.”_

Not for the first time she finds herself struggling to align multiple pieces to create a picture.

She thinks about that same man gently leading his son to bed, and her head feels hot and her skin itchy, uncomfortable.

***

She feels it now.

Kick, shifts, rolls.

Hiccups are the strangest. Odd little jumping twinges in her stomach, rhythmic and disorienting.

Something in there experiencing a world of its own.

She reaches for distance or disdain and finds neither, instead lets herself feel that curiosity.

She drinks orange juice and then a little more, because maybe she thinks there’s more movement after juice.

She pauses midway through folding kitchen towels as something inside her, of her but not her, rolls wildly and processes the lurching discomfort of a massive movement that seems to reset her entire relationship to gravity.

She hums in the shower and wonders if she can be heard.

***

_“You do Wednesday’s errands because no matter how much you claim you want a war to die in, you’re too much of a fucking coward to find your own.”_

Laura knows enough now to know they would have been watched, that their last little interaction likely had an audience, that he’d probably not actually come to find her so much as to tantrum at them.

So she knows what the Loa saw.

“Do you hate me?”

It’s a question that has been brewing for a few months now, swelling in her belly as much as the growth of her little one.

Her little one. Hers.

Laura doesn’t care about the answer, not really. Why would she? Except that she does.

“You askin’ me that because you’d hate you?”

Laura rolls her eyes. “A straight answer, please?”

Brigitte watches her for a moment, and then mutters under her breath.

“Sweeney you manman bourik bèbè.” She meets Laura’s eyes. “You said what you said. But you were just one piece in a bigger puzzle. He was gonna find his ruin, that’s what Wednesday does.”

Laura feels something bite at her, her voice sharp.

“Why didn’t _you_ stop him then?”

Brigitte watches her for a moment before turning and walking towards the back door.

“Come on.”

This time Laura stares as they step out into a graveyard, too brightly lit by harsh sunlight. 

She can feel the light, the heat of it on her skin and it's a strange kind of bliss. They move through the graveyard, rendered overly bright and slightly surreal, and Brigitte runs her hands lovingly over granite and marble. She stops occasionally to pick up a trinket, a flower left for a loved one, something small and discreet but nonetheless hers. Laura crosses her arms over her chest and trails quietly before Brigitte slows her steps. 

They are not alone.

The woman at the gravesite is dark and beautiful and so laden with grief it comes off her in waves. She traces her hands across the little plaque nestled in the earth, stroking her fingers over the letters engraved as if to dig them a little deeper, make them last a little longer.

Brigitte steps forward carefully, kneeling at the woman's side.

"Shhhh, baby. Shhhh."

It's a noise designed to comfort rather than silence and as the woman turns her grief is evident in every line of, so palpable and raw it makes Laura's head spin. She is covered in it, drenched in it, soaking in it, living and existing in this lost space as if there is nothing through the other side.

Brigitte is not repelled by the agony, and instead kneels, somehow making the earth look like a throne as she keeps the woman’s focus on her.

"Tell me about him."

There is pause as the woman gathers her breath, shaky and hollow.

"He loved butterflies." Her voice has a liquid quality that Laura wants to turn away from. "We used t-t-o walk a-and...."

The woman glances at Laura’s stomach and something in her freezes, a shard of pain so sharp it threatens to leave her bleeding out, a longing unlike anything Laura can remember feeling, living or dead.

Laura glances at the headstone in question, does the math and feels ill. So young.

She listens as the woman's words devolve into stutters and then finally her body is wracked and shaking.

Laura stares as Brigitte holds out her arms and the woman collapses, the heavy sobs becoming a wail of agony. Brigitte’s voice joins hers in a keening song of loss, a dirge that Laura wants to cover her ears against because that kind of pain, that kind of loss, has no place existing in this world and she, Laura, has no capacity to hear it.

Brigitte holds firm, holds space, holds tight until the woman is exhausted and emptied.

Brigitte lays her gently on the ground, stroking her cheek and mumbling quiet words in a combination of languages Laura cannot speak.

The woman slips away, drained and perhaps lighter for it, her breath evening out. Brigitte kisses her forehead gently, reverently.

The Loa stands and the graveyard shifts, night descending. The woman disappears and they are alone once more.

Brigitte turns to Laura and the she sees the mist around her, the flames in her eyes, something dark and wild and existing in a space of intense need.

“We got our people, our space to protect.” Brigitte stretches in the dim light, her ribs shifting and wisps of smoke around her skirt. “Your man took one path; there were other paths that would have ended better.”

For once Laura crushes the angry little gremlin inside her that rails at the phrase 'your man'. 

Brigitte pauses. “I wish the moun sòt had taken them. But I ain’t put here to run around cleanin’ up after lost men.”

Later, as Laura cleans glasses while Nibo lovingly prepares andouille for the pot, she thinks about the woman’s tears, the way her eyes had seemed to reach for Laura’s stomach, hungry and hurting. As she tells Nibo about it he stays quiet and Laura finds herself blurting out every moment. 

When she finishes she exhales. 

"That...that's why I don't fucking want this." She gestures the tea towel towards her stomach, pausing a moment. "Imagine feeling like _that_."

"Pffft," Nibo doesn't stop chopping but his voice is firm. "Doudou, you ain't afraid you'll feel that way...”

He stops to check the pot, adding more sage and blowing on a spoon before offering her some. She takes a sip and is once again blown away by the experience of flavour on her tongue, bursting with a bright tang and enough spice to make her eyes water. 

His voice is gentler now. “…you're scared you won't."

Laura thinks of her mother, her stiffened hair and stiffer smile. She wonders if she still goes to church twice a week, if she still calls the police over people in parks, if she still keeps a set of guest towels in the cupboard that never get used. She wonders whether her mother would have been happier if she’d been a different child, or if her combination of doormat obedience and wilful rebellion was just enough of a mental fuck you that her mother was satisfied.

She thinks of the little sparks of curiosity, of speaking to her stomach at night and genuinely letting herself believe the cadence of her voice might bring comfort.

She wonders what it means to what someone you’ve never met and how quickly that will turn into resentment, wonders how quickly her own mother felt that way.

Nibo’s words echo around her skull and Laura stares and stares.

***

She grows and so does the curiosity. She wonders who is in there, whether they prefer salty or sweet junk food, what stories they will like.

“Should I be like…buying stuff?”

Brigitte tilts her head curiously and Laura huffs, as much annoyed as the obtuseness as she is at the gesture that reminds her of someone else. She’s trying.

This is fucking bullshit.

“You know…like…a crib? A stroller?”

“Oh darlin’, that what they told you babies need?”

Laura twitches at the mention of the ‘b’ word but pushes on.

“Well what-“

“Come on.”

She wants to be annoyed, really she does.

Instead she learns to tie a bolt of fabric around her waist and across her chest to hold a little person. Brigitte is patient, her clever fingers deftly tying and untying knots until Laura practices enough that she can do it herself. She stares at the odd contraption around her body, her oversized stomach no longer a shock in the mirror.

She stares at the slightest of swellings on her chest.

Do the dead produce breastmilk? Would she look down and see a child consuming her? Or would it be nothing but skin flakes and dried blood? Would parts of her come away? Would she even live that long?

She winces at the thought and Brigitte strokes her hair, voice gentle.

“Ain’t none of this somethin’ you expected, darlin’. You just let yourself be for now.”

Laura thinks maybe she’s in love with Brigitte a little bit then, and doesn’t push her comforting hands away as the Loa squeezes her shoulder and plants a kiss on her cheek, lingering long enough to make her laugh (and wonder).

***

“Why you showin’ her all that? Ain’t like she needs ta-”

“She _wants_ to know. An’ if she wants to know, she gets to know.” Maman Brigitte lets it hang between them and sees her husband understand her point almost immediately.

“Chere, even with another truth behind it you know I -“

“I don’t tell you how to dig the grave, you don’t tell me what a woman with child needs.”

Samedi watches her flounce away and can’t resist.

“My ass you don’t tell me! YOU TOLD ME LAST WEEK WOMAN!”

Her mocking laughter makes him chuckle before he becomes serious once more, thinking of the dead girl under their roof.

***

Laura stomach grows but she feels herself waning occasionally, both more alive and less alive than ever. Sometimes she watches herself in the mirror, her thin body seeming even smaller in the wake of her swollen stomach, her seams stretching and skin grey. Other days she looks radiant, skin almost normal, cheeks nearly pink.

Nibo grips her chin and speaks to her in low tones.

“You need to eat more.”

“Why? I’m a fucking corpse.”

Nibo nods. “Yes…but _it_ ain’t.”

Laura shakes her head. “So?”

“So if you want to see the light at the end of the tunnel, you best make sure you get to the end of it.”

“More riddles?”

Nibo sighs and there is genuine frustration in the sound, as if he wants Laura to understand and doesn’t see why the way is so clouded and it reminds Laura so much of _him_ that she wants to scream.

“Growing life needs life; simple equation. Human placentas are brutal; ain’t no way for it to get what it needs without you losing somewhat. Since your usual dead self don’t have much to offer, looks like it’s drawin’ on somethin’ else to keep you powered up, and you’d be wise to keep up any other sources of fuel you can find.”

“What the actual fuck are you talking about?”

“Talkin’ bout you keepin’ yourself from shufflin’ off this mortal fuckin’ coil a little longer.”

Laura shrugs, picking at lint on her dress.

“So, what, I can play house? Go on, tell me that’s how this will play out. Tell me I’ll be here being Mommy fucking dearest.”

Nibo stares at her and there’s a grief in his eyes that makes her want to hit him, to hug him, to apologise for saying what they both know is true and what they seem to have promised not to talk about.

“You can’t even…” he exhales and there’s genuine pain in his voice and she wonders why it’s for her. “Don’t act like you don’t wanna see what happens next.”

She’s disappointed him. She thinks of the twilight space and the hot tub and bug spray and the nothingness she knows comes next. She should stop. She knows she should stop.

“Whatever.”

Nibo watches her as if waiting for her to say something better, something more honest, and she lets the silence hang between them until he stands and stalks away without a word.

Brigitte, moving past with a tray of dirty glasses, sighs.

“Baby you can’t even take good advice when it’s fuckin’ kept you alive, can you?”

Laura is quiet for a moment and when she speaks she has no delusions about the fact that she’s changing the subject.

"Why are you here?"

Brigitte sets the tray on the bar and shoots her a look of consternation, bemused by the sudden change, but Laura pushes forward.

"You know what I mean...you're not exactly...how the fuck did you..."

Brigitte watches her with no small amusement and Laura struggles to find a way to say “why are you white” without it sounding like something her mother would ask.

"I was brought here, like all of us but the Buffalo and his kin."

“And where did you come from?”

Brigitte blows on the end of her cigar.

“Same place as him.”

They both know she’s not speaking about Samedi. Laura feels something click, something she might have known but hadn’t properly aligned, and her mouth is momentarily dry. She wants to know more.

“Did you come here with him?”

Brigitte stares at her a moment and Laura feels herself being weighed and considered.

“No…no I didn’t.”

And so Laura, comfortably hiding from Nibo’s disappointment and the strange rift it has left in her heart, sit and listens.

_How to describe that night?_

_She has barely begun to carve out her space here, to find her footsteps. Shivering as she walked off the boat with the other women, malnourished, thin and wasted away. Her hands had stayed covered in the blood of those who passed during the trip, their heads in her lap as she stroked their hair and crooned songs of the old country._

_She had been so disoriented, snippets of a nun’s habit and veil, her power trimmed and reduced and relegated to something quiet and small and saintly by Mother Church. Trying to remember past the hurt, the shame, the reduction of her being._

_Stepping off to discover a new world with its own peculiar brand of cruelty._

_The years pass and she begins to find herself, find her feet, find her space. She finds women, beautiful and brave and brilliant and brutalised, and she remembers a time when she wasn’t just celebrated for her charity and obeisance. She remembers being a protector, a shield, a guardian. She watches over them as they bring babies into the world and gathers them gently in her arms as they pass. She is there for the beginning and the end and treats every moment with respect._

_They adopt her and her story begins to shift, change, take a different shape._

_Slowly her story begins to be told alongside another’s, and when they finally meet, bantering over a stolen offering, she finds someone who wants her foul mouth and wild fire, who celebrates her shards and splinters and wants to see them fused into something gloriously, wildly her_ _._

_The years pass and they create a life, a home, serving their people alongside other great families, though theirs is the wildest, the most lascivious, the most obscenely hectic. She becomes a wife to a man who revels in her fire, she becomes a mother to a son who watches over those who have died young._

_Her followers choose what to keep, what to shed, and she emerges anew._

_And then suddenly there he_ _is, suspenders with no jacket, his cap half off his head as he struggles to stay upright._

_The street is full of jazz and life, the lamplights casting shadows about, and she laps up the revelry of the banda danced in her honour._

_She turns and freezes._

_For a fleeting moment she remembers a King, glorious in battle against an enemy who despised their kind for learning and love. Then she remembers a broken bird flying away from a battlefield as the Church called for her to live in quiet obeisance._

_“You…”_

_He can barely focus his reddened eyes and she feels it then, a shard of sadness so sharp and cold that it pierces at her, an ache in her chest a physical pain. She sees shades and shadows all over him; a symbol for strength and the sun, music and craft, worshipped and wild._

_And now he stands with spittle in his beard and an old country in his voice._

_She turns and starts to walk, her feet moving faster as she hears heavy bootsteps behind her, and then she is running through the night and back to what she is making for herself, slamming the door behind her._

_It is four days later when she returns from the market to find him laughing raucously with her husband, who is clearly delighted and amused by the oversized idiot taking up too much space in their establishment_

_This time she is not too stunned to move._

_She grabs the great lug of broken man by the ear and hauls him upright, gracefully pulling him off the chair to trail behind her awkwardly, his cries getting louder the tighter she twists him towards the door._

_“Ow ow ow fuck ow ok fucking ow OK FUCKING OW I’LL GO.”_

_His accent is heavy and familiar and she thinks for a moment she might hate it, hate him, though she doesn’t really know why._

_“Brigitte, you didn’ tell me we were havin’ family visit…”_

_Samedi’s tone has a warning in it that stays her hand, stops her from throwing the big man out the door, and she turns to face him._

_“We always got an extra place at our table, ‘specially for old friends.”_

_She refuses to look at the man she has set on his knees, his ear still twisted horribly in her hand and the barest of whimpers escaping his mouth. She fights the urge to shiver, straightens defiantly._

_“I made my choices, ain’t nothin’ callin’ me back that way.”_

_Her husband understands that those splinters of hers go way back, and this space she has carved for herself wasn’t forged on this soil alone. He can feel it, can feel that need to embrace something long set aside, to warm it._

_“Oui, chere, maybe.” He tilts his head and she knows he is seeing more than he lets on. “But maybe somethin’ in you still calls to him.”_

_He knew from the moment the man appeared in the doorway that he was here for her, drawn to her, following a thrumming in her blood that called to him. The man’s mind was muddled, Samedi could see the loss. While Brigitte’s decisions to shed and embrace had been as autonomous as beings such as they could allow, this man was broken. Shells and hollowed out spaces recalling snippets and having them disappear._

_A man who had forgotten so much he forgot how lonely he was, until he saw that flame and felt a warmth like the hearth._

_He tucks a curl behind her ear, thumb grazing her jaw. So much fire, so much possessive protection inside her. Samedi knows his wife, can understand how someone would want to warm themselves by her, would be drawn to her brand of heated care._

_He kisses her deeply and it’s moments like these that she wants the world to know how smart she is, how fucking wise she is to have chosen him to walk beside her, behind her, beneath her, above and around her. To have chosen and been chosen._

_She has been lucky, she has carved her path._

_She releases the ear and turns to the shattered piece of her past. He stares at her with something akin to hunger, lost and lonely. That shard of sadness itches at her chest, and when he speaks there’s something tired and broken to his voice._

_“You an’ me…we got somethin’ unfinished.”_

_It’s a statement and a question, he truly doesn’t know the extent of it, and she doesn’t see much value in forcing his broken pieces back together only to have them shatter again with loss and shame._

_She smiles, presses a hand against his cheek, his beard rough under her fingers._

_“No, baby. But we can build somethin’ new.”_

_He stays a full week before his cursed feet demands he get going, his heart lighter and her heart fuller. He and Samedi embrace as he leaves, and she watches from the doorway as her past and future collide, fuse together, merge._

_He comes back. He always comes back._

Until one day he doesn’t.

*******

She finds Nibo later, stacking crates and emptying trash cans.

“Here.”

He stares at her hand and she gestures impatiently, grabbing his wrist and bringing his hand to her stomach.

He waits, still and silent enough that she wonders if he is worried about scaring it off. His concerns are assuaged when the little presence makes itself known with a sharp kick, and the grin that flashes across his face is one of utter delight.

He nudges her shoulder and she nudges back, enjoying his warmth as the sun fades.

*** 

The ravens still watch, but they don’t need to stay so long. Not with their master so close by, nor his weapon waiting in the wings. 

***

Laura learns to pick fresh seafood over fouled.

She watches Brigitte smile her way through markets and is fascinated to see her in sunlight, her teeth gleaming white and her grin wide. She’s greeted with open arms and offers, accepts gifts and ‘samples’ that could easily feed an army.

Laura listens as Brigitte names herbs and spices she doesn’t recognise, watches as she fills her basket.

A woman sees Brigitte and bows her head, her sleeve slipping up to reveal a familiar pattern that Laura has seen etched in the beams of Coq Noir. Brigitte strokes the woman’s arm lovingly and leans forward to whisper something in her ear. 

Laura watches a woman sitting behind a stall, a baby at her breast. When she sees Laura staring she nods warily, but on seeing Brigitte beside her she relaxes and smiles. Genuine.

Something odd tugs at Laura’s chest and for a moment she can’t move.

“Come on, baby.”

Brigitte’s hand on her elbow is gentle and she turns just as the woman raises the baby to her shoulder to rub gently at its back.

As they walk home Laura feels as though her chest will explode, too many jarring pieces trying to fit themselves together, and she has to stop a moment and lean against the alleyway wall.

Brigitte is quiet and patient and Laura shakes her head, feels something like panic begin to build and build.

The first night she had seen her Brigitte was lean and sharp, from her eyes to her smile, even her body had a the potential to cut through. Even the sensuality that slips around her like a shawl was something dark and barbed, something to be wary of.

Now she has watched her comfort someone during such loss, watched her boss her child around and slow dance with her husband and seem chained to both but bound by neither.

“Who are you?”

Brigitte cocks her head and smiles as if telling a child something they should have known all along.

“All of it.”

*** 

She watches Brigitte dance the banda, her hips liquid and her heels hitting the ground as the drums thrum and pulse. She watches her smile, sharp and wild, attracting attention as her chest heaves and her hands carve out their path.

She watches Brigitte meet Samedi’s eyes as she dances, his heated gaze turned her way before he goes off exploring and she laughs and laughs.

Laura falls asleep with her hands on her stomach, and wonders what it means to belong to someone.

***

She dreams.

Sometimes she is chased by something she can’t see, only feel the ever growing sense of dread that comes with being hunted down.

Sometimes she is looking in a mirror, pretty in pink yoga pants with a vacant expression, latte, and expensive stroller complete with cup holders. She wakes up shaking, feels as if her skin is not her own.

Sometimes she dreams of a hallway with a door at the end, somewhere familiar but unknown, and she knows she needs very much to open it and find out what is inside. She wakes before her fingers clutch the handle, feeling oddly bereft.

And every now and again, she dreams of dancing.

***

As her stomach grows she finds herself feeling more alive and deader all at once, body somehow rising to meet the challenge of the life inside it, but something inside her also draining. The illusion of health, tied entirely to something unborn. Her brain can't seem to process or handle it, and she tries not to question so much. 

Sometimes, even with the exhaustion of working and her body’s resources being…redirected, she still can’t sleep.

The first of such nights she creeps down the hall to another room, winces as the door creaks, and stands there quietly for a while.

She can hear Brigitte and Samedi somewhere; the bar, perhaps, or somewhere else that exists and doesn’t, somewhere she can only hear them because she’s been here so long. She can hear worry in Brigitte’s voice, thinks of how quiet and tense she was today. She can hear Samedi, quietly questioning and then listening, and thinks back to the first night she was hear. She thinks she can catch whispers.

_“I know what I saw.”_

_“He’s gone, chere.”_

_“So tell me what I saw. You’ve seen it too Samedi; the ravens are circling.”_

_“We got our ground here.”_

_“For now.”_

She is jerked from her reverie by a voice in the dark room before her.

“You just gonna stand there?”

She rolls her eyes and closes the door behind her, picks her way through the outfits and heels over the floor, eyes the wigs and make up cluttered dressing table as she moves until she’s standing beside his bed.

Nibo doesn’t speak, just raises an arm in invitation.

He lets her settle herself, says nothing of her bulk or the awkward press of her body against his side. She breathes in smoke and spice.

"What was he like?" 

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Funny.”

She thinks of his sassy, broken self bitching and whining his way through multiple states. Wonders what it would have been like to see him relaxed, properly, for more than a moment.

“First time he saw me all done up he stared for a full minute before leavin’.” Nibo exhales a plume of smoke into the dark air above them, the light catching its edges like a story taking shape. 

"Walked straight out the door without a backwards glance. Bout near broke my heart…then later that night I’m up on stage beltin’ out Ella Fitzgerald, god rest her soul, an’ I hear some wild man hollerin’ and cheerin’. Who do I see in the audience but him and my Pa?”

He pauses to take another drag and grin. “They stayed for the whole performance, Sweeney kept grabbin’ passers by an’ sayin’ they should tip better. Dragged one guy up and turned him upside down so cash spilled all over the stage. Got booted for shouting at a hen’s night who kept trying to get onstage.”

He chuckles and is quiet a moment, and Laura lets the memory settle over her like a warm blanket.

“Afterwards he gave me a bunch of beads and that tiara.”

He points to a corner of the room where small crown is perched atop a red wig. Far from a dinky plastic joke of a thing, it's wrought in an older style, heavy with jewels and a little spectacular.

She smiles against Nibo’s chest, enjoys the rumble of his voice as he continues.

“Now when he comes through…” he stops, swallows. “ _Came_ through, he’d always stop in to see a show, collect some sparkly stuff…”

She’s at a loss, thinking of Sweeney covered in mardi gras beads, passed out under a statue of St Jude.

“Sounds supportive.”

He takes another drag, exhaling with a chuckle.

“Suppose so…he always did like a good performance." he is thoughtful for a moment.

"But mostly I think he liked trying to pick up showgirls.”

And she laughs so hard her chest hurts.

***

Laura wipes the tables, moving awkwardly as she leans forward and struggles with the displaced sense of gravity. She has been here months now, she thinks, time running together strangely.

Strange things stretch and pull, a body called to life out of necessity and yet still very dead. She doesn’t feel the nausea anymore, but can feel her organs pressed backwards, feel her ribcage spreading as something inside her stretches and rolls.

She moves a table easily, today, lifting it to another side of the room while carefully avoiding the chandelier. Some days she feels like she could throw a car. Others she feels her strength fading, remember throwing up on the side of the road and snapping at his worried expression.

She sets the table down and stretches, pauses as her ribs are pushed and her stomach bulges slightly at one side.

She laughs, gives herself a moment to put her hands on either side and feel the odd sensation of something sharp (a foot, perhaps a knee) pressing into her hand. She presses back lightly, feels the give and shift of something completely separate to her shifting inside her.

“My bad, I’ll let you move.”

She is quiet for a moment, lets herself enjoy standing there with her hands full of the unknown. The morning is quiet and still and if she stays quiet and still maybe she can freeze this feeling of strangeness, of uncertainty. Maybe she can capture and bottle the feeling of wondering at something mysterious and mundane all at once.

She wonders if it would fit in the same bottle as her potion had, or if that would be too small for something as huge as this.

And then she’s not alone, the spell is broken, and she rolls her eyes at the universe for not granting her a few more seconds of solitude. She doesn’t bother to turn around as the little bells chime and heavy bootsteps sound behind her.

“We’re closed, come back later.”

“Think I’ll stay.”

She freezes before beginning to shake.

_“That’s the sort of coin you give to the king of America.”_

_“All my luck is yours, Dead Wife.”_

_“Fuck off.”_

_“Pipe down! Believe it or not, I’m helpin’ you.”_

_“Hi…”_

She turns very slowly, as if moving too fast might turn this into a hallucination, a memory, something distant and strange that her mind has thrown up to taunt her.

It doesn’t.

His frame blocks the morning sunlight that streams through the windows, fairy lights casting pinpricks of gold against his beard, his hair, the buckle of his belt. Same old trousers and boots, suspenders over a white undershirt and jacket in hand. She wants to ask if the heat has bothered him, where he got that black eye, if he’s hungry, how the fuck he is here larger than life and cluttering up the place.

Her body has other plans, lurching forward. She needs to touch him, feel the heat of him, prove that he’s not the corpse she left in a graveyard but rather real and here and all too fucking solid. She wants to hug him or hit him or possibly both and she can feel the smile twitching against her face…

…only to freeze as she finally sees it.

Nothing.

Eyes the colour of a forest in autumn should be glaring down at her in irritation, frustration, suspicion, barely concealed arousal and more than a little amusement. She should feel pinned, stripped bare, examined and known. She should be looking up at shock, his stupid fucking jaw dropping open and that cigarette dangling from his lip as he stares at her stomach.

Instead…

She looks up into eyes that hold no recognition.

“How’d you get my fuckin’ coin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Far out that was a long chapter...thanks for sticking with this so long, hopefully the last few quieter chapters haven't thrown off the overall story. Be safe and thank you x


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Ettume for being generous with her time and consideration and helping me through motivational quagmires. Story logic legend, thank you.
> 
> Worth noting the time indicators at the start of the next few chapters.

**3 months earlier**

**A beautiful mansion surrounded by barren land**

“You’re sure he had it?”

The woman across from her sits so straight, so beautifully poised, that her high backed chair is rendered a throne.

“Yes, he took it with him before he died. Sent to the hoard.”

Ostara smiles. Perfect.

Bilquis watches her with dark eyes that give nothing away, and Ostara takes a moment to consider a goddess older than her, a being who has somehow persisted.

“He was killed by Shadow Moon.”

“Not a full god, darling. Still within my remit at least.”

Bilquis narrows her eyes.

“A demi-god killed him, perhaps, but there are very few scraps of belief left to tie him to.”

Ostara has the strangest feeling of being tested rather than actively dissuaded, and she wonders once again what Bilquis wants in all of this mess. She nods, rearranging a huge bowl of wildflowers, a stunningly colourful accent in her pastel drawing room.

“Perhaps…but circumstances have coalesced. He can be moored back to himself.”

Bilquis watches her and Ostara smiles, stands and bids her to follow.

They leave the drawing room and Ostara’s heels clack loudly against the marble tiles as they head for another room where the curtains are wide, revealing barren land and a stunning sunrise.

Bilquis stops in the doorway at the sight on the floor, and Ostara gives herself a moment to enjoy having surprised the other god. Easter may be a candy coated commercial affair, but it has felt good to use her gifts to the fullest.

The birds speak, the flowers sing, and she can usually find out what she needs quickly enough. In this case they sung a story of too many coincidences lining up flawlessly.

_A dead girl brought temporarily back to life, experiencing food and drink and passion surrounded by magick. A God King turned crumbling ruins of a mortal man, rendered briefly something more by the mischievous actions of Loa._

_A coin._

_A mind trying to repair itself fracturing into pieces in the last few hours of life. A confrontation that saw a man closer to his true form that he had been in centuries; saturated in memories, in faith, freed from his debts and remembering what he is owed. The shade of a God King briefly rendered clearer, more vibrant._

_A death, but not the first of its kind._

_A precedent set many years ago of siring a child after death, bringing forth an incarnation, kin who share enough of a being that they mimic belief. Lugh conceiving his heir, himself, after his own demise; a story already written, if somewhat bastardised at this point._

_A girl with a body on a slow descent back to decay, a potion designed to create life._

_All coming together to create a single spark, a smouldering ember._

_And Ostara, whose gift is life, there to gently but firmly fan the flame._

Bilquis stares at the body on the floor, at the rising and falling of his chest.

“What have you done?”

“Anchored him back here.”

“The girl…”

Ostara waves her hand airily. “Oh she’ll be fine…well, that’s not entirely true, but the Dead Girl seems pretty used to finding options for herself.”

Dark curls shift as she shakes her head, and Ostara wonders again at a protective glint in Bilquis’ eyes.

“She found it with the Loa, she thinks she is receiving her salvation."

Ostara feels a pang of guilt that she quickly quashes. It’s nothing personal; the Dead Girl hasn’t wronged her, she certainly does want her to suffer. Had she been able to bring her back on the day of her party, she would have. But now this requires more of a guarantee.

“There was once a time when a mortal would be delighted to find themselves carrying a deity’s offspring.”

They both know it’s a lie of course, the stories rarely end well for those mortal, but Bilquis leaves it.

“Laura wants to destroy Wednesday and mourn.”

It’s not a scoff, but Ostara is the first to admit it’s a dismissive noise she makes.

Resourceful the Dead Girl may be, but she is also just another human, and they both know this is bigger than that.

Perhaps Ostara’s hurt at being manipulated so easily to destroy is driving this. Maybe her anger at not having seen what she should have seen so clearly; Wednesday did not want the Old Gods protected and returned to glory. He wanted a monopoly on power.

Maybe it is the shame that makes her hiss so harshly.

“We don’t need a rogue corpse getting weaker; Wednesday needs to go.”

“The leprechaun will not be your spear; he will go to her first.”

Ostara can barely hide her smile and tries hard to avoid looking too smug. Of course the thought had crossed her mind, she was well aware that his personal favour for the Dead Girl hadn’t just been his guilt, had seen the early inkling of a grudging connection (as if he ever had any other kind).

After all, wasn’t that connection what set Ostara’s plan in motion so beautifully?

Of course she couldn’t have him distracted from vengeance, not until Wednesday was finished.

“Not if he doesn’t remember her.”

*******

It had taken all night.

So difficult working out what to take and what to leave. Just enough to avoid distraction, not so much that he wasn’t himself and ready to reap vengeance.

Still, she is nothing if not persistent, and the physical results are...acceptable. Even if Bilquis had expressed her concerns before taking her leave, minutes before he’d woken up.

He turns one way and then the other in front of the mirror, running fingers over the place in his chest where his mind probably tells him something should be. A scar, a bruise, a mark…a gaping hole dripping blood. But there is nothing, and his blank expression makes her wonder if something went wrong.

_“What have you done?”_

She dismisses the concern. Unlikely. Her work is rare but stunning.

She stays quiet and lets herself enjoy the view. It always was impressive.

“Got some fuckin’ clothes?”

Ostara sighs, supposes that the impressive view is nature’s way of making up for the attitude problem.

He scoffs at the suit she gestures to and pulls on a pair of jeans from the back of a chair, pulling them up and then releasing a long exhale and a laugh. It's a free, shocked little sound and she feels a moment of sympathy for him, so long cut off from his own being, unable to find himself in the madness.

She feels a pang of guilt at what she has taken but pushes it down quickly. He grabs a crystal decanter full of brandy from a bar table, unstoppers it and takes a swig without even smelling it.

She purses her lips as he swills top of the line liquor like it’s beer, stopping to swirl it and then swallow.

"Mouth tastes like shite."

Or graveyard dirt, she supposes.

He sniffs, plucking a cigarette from behind his ear and enjoying the brief relief of pulling something easily from the hoard as he calls in his lighter. He inhales deeply and exhales a disgusting plume of smoke into her drawing room. She can practically _feel_ it settling into the delicate lace curtains. He exhales and stares at his lighter, sending it back and bringing it forth three times in rapid succession with a grin. 

"Christ, woman, I'm feeling better than I have in centuries; what the fuck did you do?" 

She smiles. He should be feeling better, should be full of fire and heat and ready to take bloody revenge. She gestures beatifically.

"Life is my gift."

He shakes his head and she waits, wondering just how well this has worked. He keeps stares at his hands, his eyes far away. She knows then that the physical feeling is not aligning with his mind, but hardly feels she’s to blame for that, given how shattered and buck shot it was already.

He shakes his head.

"Don’t feed me that shit; I…” he pauses and she can see him trying to sift through it all, wonders if the blank spots feel like grit against his skin or parasitic holes burrowed into his patchwork mind. “How am I here?"

She doesn’t need him dwelling on the little things, starts to speak as he twitches and shakes his head as if trying to loosen something.

"Ah, you and I both know that there’s dying and there’s _dying_ and there’s dead and…not so dead."

"The fuck does that mean?"

Ostara shrugs and keeps her voice light.

“Life is my gift.”

He stares at her for a moment, trying to figure out what she's talking about, and she wonders if he can read between the lines.

An anchor, a vessel, something made of such pure belief that it couldn’t exist without his contribution.

She moves on, quickly.

"And now here you are, all ready to be helpful."

She can see the pieces trying desperately to fit together, knows there are too many incomplete puzzles all meshed over each other. He studies her and for a moment she feels stripped bare, like wild eyes will manage to flay the truth from her, and she clamps down on the barest twinge of fear that blooms across her chest.

Nothing happens.

He sucks his teeth, wrinkles his nose as the smell of dried rose petals and perfume reaches him.

He doesn’t argue over the change of subject, and for a moment she is concerned, wonders where his fight has gone.

He watches her closely and then shrugs, ready to move on.

"Right, back to playing errand boy for you?"

He seems defeated by the prospect. He should be nothing but heat and zeal. Instead he seems broken, weighed down. His guilt is so much bigger, so much longer-standing than any of them realise that she supposes it’s going to remain intact even through death.

It’s not forever, she thinks. Just to see this through, just to avoid distractions.

She gives him a coy look.

"Wasn't too long ago you didn't mind that job."

He lights another cigarette, flinching when he burns his finger, and she thinks of the furniture, wrinkles her nose as he responds.

"Used to involve a lot more tit and a lot less talkin'."

She makes a moue of disappointment, the action leaving no lines on her beautiful face.

"A bit more talking wouldn't have hurt.'

He shrugs.

"Depends on the topic. Now what the fuck do you want me to do? I gotta get back.”

She pauses midway through reaching for a pear from the bowl on the table, tries to keep her voice light and calm.

“Get back?”

“Yeah, surprised his fucking buzzards haven’t come tapping already.”

Odin.

She tries to force herself to move as her heart thuds. She knew he’d have blank spots, blind spots. That was the cost, temporary though it may be, or bringing him back focused and without distractions.

But Bilquis had told her about _that_ night, about the God King seeking his bloody retribution, about the pool of blood on the floor. She’d expected the fierceness, the blood debt to be roaring along his skin and through his veins. She’d expected something glorious and ready for battle.

Bilquis had warned her.

_“Not if he doesn’t remember her.”_

_Bilquis looks at her with something like pity._

_“You think to bring back a God King ready for vengeance. You may find his last hours were driven by something more.”_

She can’t have gotten it this wrong. Has she misjudged? Has she seen a distraction where in fact there had been something more? A circuit breaker?

Too late, she thinks. Too much to push on with.

He will go, he will see, and he’ll take vengeance. Gungnir will sing out and the God of War will be felled. All in good time.

She thinks quickly, smiles brightly.

“Well that’s just it; you need to get back to it! He’s waiting.”

He laughs, a bleak and joyless sound, and the bright drawing room seems briefly darker for it. He squints at her through another plume of smoke.

“Thought you were pissed, what with him killin’ those bunnies of yours.”

He shuts off the lighter to look out the window at the barren land below, the result of her sacrifice-boosted power display, and she wonders how much he can read from the sight of it.

Can he see her rage, her fury at being sacrificed to and then receiving nothing more than fool words? Can he see her anger at having been tempted only to lose a dear friend, see her lands destroyed and no additional boost to allow her to reverse the effects?

Can he feel Gungnir grating against his side?

She grits her teeth. “You’re one to talk.”

He shakes his head, unapologetic. “Didn’t know it was yours, and if you’d tried the stew you wouldn’t have minded.”

She thinks briefly of telling him everything just to shut him up for a moment, wonders how, _how_ exactly it took so long for someone to finally kill him given that mouth of his.

She bites her tongue as he stretches again, finds herself studying the muscles in his back as he moves. He catches her eye in the mirror, cocks an eyebrow, and shoots her that lazy fucking smile, runs his tongue across his teeth.

“Suppose I should be goin’.”

The look he gives her is all the confirmation she needs that those memories are no longer with him. She should look away, hustle him out the door, but they both know that’s not how this will play out.

Besides, she thinks to herself as he leans against the doorway, she’s earned the distraction.


	12. Chapter 12

**3 months ago**

**Lakeside**

Shadow Moon is tired.

Lakeside is cold. Not just cold against his skin, but against his bones. He can feel himself being drawn under, the icy chill permeating more of him every day. He wonders if it’s really the chill or if it is, in fact, the loneliness.

Every day he wonders why he is here, why he is still doing this, why he followed Wednesday willingly into the café that morning, sat across with a hot chocolate in front of him and listened to vague prattle? All answers that answer nothing and questions left unattended and increasingly painful.

Yggdrasil, explosions, loss…why is he fucking here? He wonders if it’s the hint that something might clarify or coalesce, but he knows that’s not the truth.

He is here because (and perhaps this is where Shadow can find most of his answers); where else would he be?

He thinks of Laura as he wonders the cemetery, thinks of their last time together in another graveyard, thinks of the bright sunlight glinting against her hair as he tossed away the last of them.

_“I'm gonna kill Wednesday, are you gonna try and stop me?"_

_He watches her for a moment and sees the fire, the determination. She had that in life only occasionally, the last time being their little casino heist. He wonders if she’s looking for revenge or seeking redemption or whether this is just another way of trying to protect him._

_He wonders what happened in New Orleans and whether she’s broken by the dead man lying in the morgue. He looks, really looks, and thinks maybe he knows._

_"Free country."_

And now here he is. He misses her, he thinks, or some part of her. Wishes he could have found a way to accept her warnings and not cut ties so cleanly, wishes he’d never suspected Wednesday’s part in her death, knows his suspicion puts him in the wrong.

He wishes Sweeney had been nearby, chain smoking and taking up too much space.

He hears a sound and turns.

And Shadow Moon stares.

He blinks. Loneliness is a bitch, and it wouldn’t be the first time his mind had conjured a cure, albeit an unlikely one in this case.

Is it possible to bring back the dead with a thought? Or is the man in front of him just enough of an asshole to find his way back to the living?

“How?”

Sweeney, larger than life and looking none too impressed with the temperature or the temperamental lighter he can’t get a spark from, shrugs.

“Who knows?”

Shadow is not clear on what question he thinks he is answering, but something is off.

The other man (man?) is wearing slightly cleaner clothes than his usual fare, though Shadow wonders if perhaps anything he pulls on quickly develops the same unkempt, uncared for rumple the second it hits his body. Sweeney curses as he hits the lighter again, and Shadow is briefly struck by a feeling of relief so palpable it nearly winds him.

He wonders if it’s a familiar face or some self-sacrificial emotion that is actively seeking death. Or maybe something far simpler.

_“Don’t let her near him.”_

_Shadow doesn’t ask who but Sweeney acts like he does._

_“Your wife…don’t let her near Grimnir. Grimnir’s nothin’ but rot.”_

_“Why do you even care?”_

_There’s a tiredness to Sweeney but his eyes are clear and there’s purpose there. Shadow has the sickening feeling the taller man is disappointed in him, and considers for a moment that maybe he cares about that._

_“I warned you.”_

And he did, didn’t he? Again and again? From the first night, Sweeney warned him, in between fists and magic and a few choice comments.

And the warning, the disappointment, the promise extracted…they had all been genuine.

And perhaps the feeling of relief is as simple as that; someone who had, in his strange and jealous way, cared. Who was gone and now is…not.

Sweeney watches him for a moment and Shadow wonders if this is the calm before the crazy.

If anyone has a debt to pay, a balance to restore, a ledger to rectify, it’s him. You don’t go round impaling demi-god leprechauns on ancient spears without accruing some sense of owing. Shadow studies Sweeney, whole and hale and apart from looking cold, looking healthier than he has in fuck knows how long.

Shadow takes a step forward only to find himself pausing, some instinct pricked, though he can’t say at what. There’s no anger on Sweeney’s face barring his usual base level antagonism, no hidden fury or barely suppressed desire to cause physical harm to Shadow.

Which is…strange, given that the last time they locked eyes, Sweeney was on the end of Gungnir, and Shadow had broken a promise to someone who was still somewhat Fae.

Sweeney finally manages to light his cigarette and takes a long drag.

“Well, where’s the man at then?”

Shadow blinks.

“Who?”

Sweeney rolls his eyes and starts towards town, legs moving swiftly enough that Shadow has to briefly trot to catch up. He notices the ravens then, flying slowly enough to follow on foot, and Sweeney seems to be using them as a guide.

“Grimnir. Fucker’ll be waitin’, won’t he?”

Shadow sputters.

“You…you want to find him?”

Sweeney shrugs, swears as he trips over a broken headstone.

“Bout as much as I want a migraine, but here we fuckin’ are.”

Sweeney burns the end of his finger taking out his cigarette, hissing. Shadow waits for the murderous intent, or some indication of revenge being sought, but finds nothing. He pushes on, confused and anxious at the slow feeling of dread crawling up his spine.

“And…Laura?”

Sweeney doesn’t break stride, continues towards town as he answers with a distracted disinterest.

“Who?”

***

The Jinn parks, glances at himself in the mirror.

His sunglasses are firmly in place.

For a moment, he hates them, a fast bolt of fury at the covering jolting his system like an electric shock. The reaction makes him blink, out of place and confusing.

The drive has not taken them long, the call thrumming along like an invisible leash (and he hates it, hates the feeling of being collared, wonders when exactly he started hating something as much a part of him as any other myth).

Beside him Salim lays a hand on top of his own.

“You know…we don’t have to do this.”

Of course he does (not we, stop with the ‘we’; you can leave, you can run, you can _be_ ). Salim’s faith is a warm balm and a bitter acid at various times, wholesome and flawed in its naivety. He watches the other man for a moment and something odd crackles against him, like it wants to tell him, to ask him, to show him, to be free of this.

The Jinn gets out without answering, knows he cannot trust his tongue as they walk towards the café. Salim suppresses a shiver but the Jinn is not cold. Never cold.

It is warm inside, the walls may have been white once but are now faded, decorated with awkward paintings and tables wiped clean so many times they’ve absorbed the stains.

Wednesday doesn’t glance up from his newspaper, his coffee steaming.

“Bout time you got here.”

The Jinn suppresses a quick, bright flash of rage.

Since when had this become so…real?

Salim, ever conscious of when his presence is better served in the background, moves to the counter to order as the Jinn sits down.

“You called, I am here.”

Wednesday gives a little scoff, as if to say ‘well…obviously’, and the Jinn wonders if Odin’s bones crack as loudly as others.

“We still have work to do.”

The Jinn stays quiet.

“With Gungnir…gone…some plans need to be revised. You will be my eyes, you will not speak my secrets.”

It’s an intense, binding feeling that arcs across him, and he keeps his tone mild.

“Your orders grow bold.”

Wednesday smirks and winks at him and briefly the Jinn sees the ties of his existence laid bare.

Before he can ask about next steps the café’s bell chimes, bright and sweet, as the door opens. The man across from him glances to the doorway and the Jinn sees something strange flash in Wednesday’s eyes. Unfamiliar and intriguing, immediately suppressed.

Fear.

“You!”

Salim’s voice is joyful and horrified all at once, and the Jinn turns as the smaller man sends Sweeney a shocked, happy smile.

"You are back!"

He has rushed to stand in front of Sweeney, hands fluttering at his sides as if he would like to institute contact but isn’t quite assured of the relationship. As much as ever, the genuine emotion on his face makes the Jinn’s stomach turn, something worthy of desire and repulsion all at once, the vulnerability like an exposed wound.

“I know you?”

It’s gruff and dismissive and the Jinn quirks a brow, genuinely intrigued. Across from him Wednesday’s eyes narrow, curiosity and then amusement tweaking the corner of his lips.

Salim's face falls, a different kind of wound, quickly replaced by concern. Behind Sweeney, Shadow is still, one hand flexing as if a thrum of energy wants to be released. The Jinn can related to wanting to hit something until it gives him a clear response.

Wednesday is sitting back, reading his paper, at ease. Any fear is gone, his face placid and calm as he turns the page without another glance at the ghost in front of him.

"Took you long enough."

The Jinn wonders at what Wednesday can see.

Sweeney narrows his eyes.

"Ostara sends her best."

Wednesday chuckles and nods as if this is no surprise at all. 

"I bet she does. Go move my car, will you?"

He throws the keys and Sweeney rolls his eyes as he walks out to do as he's told.

Shadow stares after him and stumbles over to the table.

"What...how?"

Wednesday shrugs. 

"He's too dumb to stay dead."

The Jinn thinks of the flash of fear and sit back, noting Salim's crestfallen expression as he sits down.

“He…didn’t remember me.”

Wednesday speaks to Salim but meets Shadow's eyes.

"Probably for the best, don’t you think?"

It’s effective.

Shadow stares at Wednesday and then his eyes shift, focusing somewhere else, maybe back to the floor of Cairo. The Jinn watches the thoughts flicker over his face, amused by what an easy read he can be as Shadow considers what Sweeney may do if he remembers who killed him.

He sees a man wanting neither to kill again nor be killed by a debt being called in. He wonders if Shadow really believes that _he_ is where Sweeney’s ire would be directed, wonders if Wednesday’s hold has sunk into the man more deeply than the Jinn realised.

He thinks of Gungnir and watches Wednesday returning to his paper, his voice light and dispassionate but the warning clear.

"He'll shake loose anything he needs in good time, no doubt. In the meantime, I suggest we all stay friends."

Salim is moves as if to speak and the Jinn carefully places one boot over the top of his foot. Salim twitches but picks up on the hint and bites his tongue.

Wednesday folds the paper carefully and stands as the sound of a car rumbles out front.

"Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have an appointment."


	13. Chapter 13

**Lakeside**

You would think, perhaps, that missing large chunks of memory would be sufficient to set off some degree of concern. Perhaps a modicum of curiosity.

For you and I, this would be the case.

But you and I are not gods (though of course we write our stories, and perhaps that’s closer than most people realise). We have not spent centuries being splintered and reformed and reshaped and reshuffled (or maybe this is growing up). We have not had our sense of self cut and carved and wrenched from our control (or perhaps we have, and that’s why we know how painful this would be).

So maybe we would wonder, or maybe we would deny, all too aware that the gaps are holes into which fingers can be poked and twisted and rot can creep in, opportunities for others to exploit.

Or worse…that it doesn’t matter at all.

In the case of the fallen God-king cum back alley tragedy, it is of course the latter.

It’s not a lack of honesty, of course. He’s painfully honest with himself that the gaps are there, that the sinking feeling of losing more pieces of himself is weighing him down. But the reality is that this is not the first, nor he suspects will it be the last, time he has lost moments, months, even years.

And so he spends the first week existing, one foot in front of the other, as he always has.

***

Sweeney is in a strange space, a strange place.

There is a weight that he has felt for longer than he remembers feeling, a guilt, a burden, a debt owed.

A battle fled.

A war abandoned.

A family reduced to poverty.

A myth in the trees.

_My feet, my wandering feet, brought here to a strange place, a strange space, where things like me are memories clung too and then rejected._

A debt owed…now gone.

_“You were always my battle.”_

He shakes his head, tries to clear the memory of words he has not spoken.

Debts cannot disappear like that.

His slate is not wiped clean.

So then why does he feel himself stand taller, as if he has set down some great fucking backpack laden with fault and burden and blame?

He struggles to pull the words back and instead gets snippets of the past week.

_Lakeside is a shithole._

_The town is tiny, it’s fucking freezing all the time, and he can smell a rot to the air. There is something here, something cruel and ancient, something that makes his lip curl._

_The Jinn’s little pet keeps staring at him with sad brown eyes that in the wrong light look almost kind, or pitying, or both._

_Shadow Moon is full of tension and there is a guilt to it, an edge like something betrayed._

_“You remember much about Cairo?”_

_He shrugs._

_“Same shithole, full of Egyptians.” He thinks. Maybe. Perhaps. Or it was once and likely hasn’t changed enough to make things untrue._

_Shadow wants to pry more, he can tell, but Wednesday steps in and it’s a relief not to be interrogated, not to have his blank pages laid bare for study elsewhere._

Sweeney concentrates on the road, on the little song Wednesday is humming to himself, and pulls the words hard from the depths of somewhere.

_“You were always my battle.”_

He spoke them, he knows that. But where there should be context there is nothing, where there should be surrounding circumstances he is bereft.

Blank spots are nothing new; memories are cards being shuffled through his head, round and round like a casino where the dealer controls your outcome with a wink and a smile. There are cards missing from the deck, or some so degraded they’re hard to read, and others are cards from different games entirely.

Lifetimes and myths long forgotten, shuffled and dealt and shuffled and dealt by bony white hands, deft and decaying.

Gorey pieces all over the road.

_Fucking bitch._

He blinks, unsure once again of where his mind is taking him.

He comes back to what he knows, what he always knows, lets the restlessness take over.

He owes a battle.

_“You were always my battle.”_

He owes a battle, needs his seat at the table.

He pulls the car over and parks as Grimnir picks up the newspaper from the glove compartment.

“Wait here.”

He watches the god of war head to an alleyway. He has spent the last week largely sending Sweeney on various errands and demanding to be taken to the occasional 'appointment', and perhaps Sweeney should care, or be annoyed.

Instead he tries, for the millionth time since he had woken up in Ostara’s drawing room, to call his coin from the hoard.

He can hear the clink of gold tumbling over itself, can feel the call of that space, access parts of the power he has long felt dwindling.

He calls and he calls and he calls.

Nothing answers and the cards begin to shuffle again.

***

The Allfather leans against the brick of the alley, careful not to stand too close to a dumpster. There’s the faintest smell of piss in the air but no recent vomit staining the wall, and perhaps in this way it is a far superior alley to many.

He adjusts his newspaper.

It does not take long for his guest to arrive. After all, they have an appointment.

The printed letters grow bolder, slipping and shifting over one another in a swirling mass of tittles and punctuation and capitalisation, swelling and growing and swirling.

Mr World coalesces into being, a shifting miasma of globalisation and distribution solidifying into as close to existence as he is willing to commit to.

“You are worried.”

His voice is the whispering, sibilant layers of a million lies twined together. Wednesday briefly considers that he could lay off the dramatics given that they’re meeting in the alley behind a Piggly Wiggly.

“We have an unexpected complication.”

Mr World glances towards the entrance of the alley. Across the street, cigarette dangling from his lips and arms crossed in front of him to ward off the cold, is a dead man looking very much alive.

“So it would ssseeem.” He turns back to Wednesday. “How?”

“Just showed up, twice the muscle and half the brain. His memory is…shot. He’s missing pieces.”

The both watch Sweeney swear as his lighter slips under the car. He lifts the edge of the vehicle to reach under, the move disturbingly easy, only to slip on ice and drop it on his fingers.

The cursing fills the street.

“Hisss mind has been splintered for some time, you’ve never had issue with thisss before.”

Wednesday chuckles.

“Sure. But this time seems…targeted.”

Mr World’s expression does not change, still and calm, but Wednesday can see his pixelated pupils dilate.

“Is thisss truly a worry? He iss muscle and obedience.”

Wednesday pauses.

Wednesday thinks back to the final night at Cairo, to the man standing taller and firmer in his convictions than he had in eons. He thinks of the shift from tense, guilt laden manservant to something closer to its origins, or the memory of them.

He thinks about a glimmer of godliness.

Another howl from the street.

The man they are watching is not that man.

This man has jammed his fingers in the car door multiple times, moodily sworn his way through errands that he comes back from bruised, as if he can’t keep his body out of harm’s way.

He gets the job done, of course. In fact there’s even less of the biting back, and when he can keep himself from slipping on black ice or putting his head through windows, he actually seems stronger.

An odd mix, to see a body more solid and connected, and a mind with such gaping holes.

“Maybe.”

“You fear him-“

“Watch your mouth.

“And Gungnir? Can he return it to you?”

Wednesday feels his lip curl.

“Not without raising questions; the mind may be weak but the mick stubbornness is willing and able.”

Mr World is quiet for a moment, watching as Sweeney’s nurses his knuckles, kicking the car wheel and shouting when his toe hits at the wrong angle.

It’s a mess, of course, but it is here. Real and walking around after being slammed through the chest with something wrought of revenge and war. Shattered the mind may be, but there are glimmers of magic along the gossamer threads, hints of something greater, like a puzzle waiting for missing pieces to make a more glorious whole.

Mr World cannot see the pieces, cannot see the picture they are to form, and this makes him wary.

“Not many could take the smouldering ashes of belief and nurture them once more into a flame.”

“How?”

Mr World shrugs.

“That isss not something I can answer.”

“Bessst asssk the lady herself.”

Odin pauses and then nods.

Back, but wrong. Off. Stronger and weaker all at once.

Mr World is on edge, unable to solve the equation, unable to dissect the algorithm and see how it fits in the bigger program. It is an unusual sight, and not one to fill him with confidence.

Wednesday studies him a moment before nodding, adjusting his hat with a smile.

“Well then…I think I need to pay a visit to a lady.”

***

  
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Wednesday’s voice is sharp as he get back into the car after whatever alleyway shenanigans he’d spent the last hour indulging.

Sweeney grunts as he picks himself up off the concrete, cracking his knuckle to make sure it’s not broken. He shuts the car door too hard and Wednesday gives him a look that makes him want to tell the bastard to go fuck himself.

Instead he gives him the truth.

  
“My fuckin’ coin; it’s gone.”

It’s offered up tightly, as if he doesn’t want to be sharing the information, and Wednesday finds this oddly amusing all things considered.

He keeps his voice light, mild.

“Must have been left behind when Shadow got you out of Cairo. Fell out of your pocket.”

He refuses to glance at the man in the other car seat, but even in his peripherals there is a stillness to the expression.

“Ain’t travelling with it in a fuckin’ wallet.”

Sweeney doesn’t ask about Cairo, about Shadow, about what had happened. Neither confirming nor denying, and it’s as clear an indication as any of the truth of it. However large the gaps may be, he’s too used to pretending they don’t exist, or moving on without mourning what is missing.

“Then I suppose…it could have been taken.”

Sweeney narrows his eyes.

“You know somethin’?”

Wednesday considers his options and pushes back the smile.

“A little birdie may have heard a whisper.”

He lets it hang there, intrigued by Sweeney’s restraint, his laser focus at odds with the way he’s biting his tongue.

“What. Whisper?”

It’s not panic, not quite, despite how raw this is for him. But the meathead is close to snapping, and Wednesday does his math.

One coin, one corpse, one mind-addled leprefuck, one spear…

“I’ll have Muninn ask around.”

He keeps his eyes on the road and lets his voice take on a determined edge.

“We’ll get it back.”

A whole man would have seen through the cracks and shards of the lies, would have tested their edges and reacted when pricked.

Sweeney’s body may be more grounded, solid, powerful than before, but his mind has never been further from whole.

Wednesday has seen it in his quiet compliance, in the barely concealed relief on Sweeney's face when Wednesday had cut off Shadow's mild interrogation. 

Instead of questioning the image of protective anger or the earnestness of the words, Sweeney forces himself to set aside the tension, gritting his teeth against sharp words in the face of the earnestness of Wednesday’s tone.

This, Wednesday thinks, could be an elegant way of adjusting the equation.

He thinks about a skinny girl with spite on her tongue.

Sweeney grunts, lighting a cigarette.

“Thanks.”

Wednesday hides his smile.

Two birds, one coin.

They drive on in silence, wrapped in word webs and covered in lies.


	14. Chapter 14

How do you talk to a dead man?

A man you murdered?

A man who can fight like he doesn’t feel pain but manages to trip, spill hot coffee down his pants, and curse so viciously a child nearby starts crying?

It’s a strange thing to interact with someone you thought was gone.

Stranger still when it’s someone you killed, and regret killing, and cannot discuss said killing, because they don’t remember being killed, let alone that you did the killing, and that might mean you have to kill them again.

Shadow Moon is getting headaches.

***

“Don’t you think it would be useful? He’s gonna find out someday.”

Shadow feels edgy. The whispers of missing children throughout the town, coupled with Sweeney’s recent return, are leaving him cold and tense, like he’s meant to be doing something but cannot remember what.

He does not like the secrets hanging in the air, and one in particular he could rid himself of today.

_“How’s it feel to lose your treasure?”_

The Jinn stays silent and Wednesday doesn’t look up from his paper.

“You worry too much. He doesn’t miss it.”

How can you miss a memory?

Shadow thinks of Sweeney’s hollow eyes and the doubts claw at his throat. 

***

Salim is often in the company of the Jinn, but when he finds himself alone, he reads at the café with a pot of tea. Shadow does not know why he is here, and does not know how to ask. It should be simple, he supposes, but these days he finds it hard to ask others for their motivation when he doesn’t understand his own.

Salim looks peaceful in the light of the wintery weather outside.

Shadow hasn’t learned much about him but he seems to have a well of patience deep enough that even Sweeney can’t exhaust it, not for lack of trying.

And gods…he does try.

_Wednesday has them existing in a strangely liminal state; their errands don’t lead them far from Lakeview, the rest of the time seemingly spent waiting._

_The main strip of the town is a combination of grocers, butchers, two dingy cafes with competing bad coffee, and a little clothes store that seems to view dust as an accessory._

_As they pass the window there’s a red bomber jacket in the store window and Shadow watches Sweeney freeze, staring at it as if very far away._

_Salim steps forward._

_“Do you like it?”_

_The look of loss is gone and replaced by an eye roll and sneer._

_“You the fuckin’ fashion police now?”_

_He pushes past him hard enough that he stumbles. Shadow grits his teeth but Salim is unbothered by the nonsense, regarding him with something close to pity._

“You can stand up to him, you know.”

Salim is drawn from his book.

“What makes you think that I don’t?”

It’s a jarring question and Shadow is reminded that not everyone solves things with fists. He sighs.

"Yesterday he gave me an empty mug and told me to fill it with fucks from elsewhere because he had none to give."

Salim gives Shadow a smile, sipping his tea.

“He has a way with words.”

“He has a way of being an asshole.”

Salim nods. "He does." 

The little man is quiet for a moment before speaking again.

"He remembers very little...nothing connected to Laura."

Shadow snorts, pushing down the guilt, trying to pull some semblance of glee from his depths.

_"I fucked her, in New Orleans."_

He thinks of Sweeney dozing in the car and waking with a start, panic in his eyes and names on his tongue. The moments pass quickly and he shuts down, tense and ready to lash out.

Eorann. Moira. Essie.

Shadow files the names away.

The last one, uttered not with longing but with an angrily frustrated edge that is all too familiar.

Laura.

Shadow is meant to get some pleasure in this, right? Meant to find some meaning here or at least enjoyment of the situation?

Salim is watching him, waiting for a response to his statement, and Shadow shrugs.

"And that's a bad thing?"

It’s lacking the dripping sarcasm he’d wanted to dig deep; he is no Laura, and this odd blend of anger and guilt suits him poorly. Salim studies him with large, liquid eyes and nods.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps memories are the only way that we grow.”

“And you think he’s self-actualised and this is costing him enlightment?”

He’s prouder of the sarcasm now.

Salim's face is too understanding for this conversation, and Shadow thinks of Laura on the balcony at Ostara's home, Sweeney silent and edgy behind her, tied there by some invisible leash. 

“You don’t like him.”

“No. Do you?”

Salim shrugs.

“I pitied him. I listened to him. I mourned him.”

He stops at that, and Shadow wonders what he’s remembering before he looks up and continues.

“He made an impact. I don’t like…this.”

He leaves the rest unsaid and it’s enough to feel both unfair and deeply accurate at the same time. The lying, the hiding…of course he doesn’t like it.

Shadow scoffs. “He sure inspires some strong emotions.”

Salim smiles his sad smile and looks out the window where the Jinn disappeared a few days earlier.

“Perhaps seeing the world recoil to your touch is better than seeing it unmoved by you at all.”

Shadow thinks of Laura, sips his coffee and hates Salim a little, if only because he knows he’s right. 

***

Time passes (that’s what it does, of course).

They bite and snap because that’s what Sweeney brings out in people, always testing buttons, and Shadow starts to get the hang of pressing them back.

“Wednesday tell you how pretty you look today?”

A few days ago Shadow would have ignored the jab, avoided the interaction as another immature attempt to get a rise from him. Now he feels an odd urge to laugh as he takes his shot, the pool cue snapping a ball neatly into the pocket.

Shadow swings back.

“Learn any new coin tricks?”

Sweeney is amused, letting out a bark of sharp laughter in the crowded bar, and Shadow is oddly pleased at having made him laugh. He wonders for a moment at this feeling, a shared moment, and finds the jabs have less sting when you catch them and toss them back.

Sweeney manages to sink another shot despite his hand slipping so the cue cracks him in the knee. Shadow has never seen anyone so accident prone, and makes a note not to let him drive whenever possible.

The song playing changes to something slower and Shadow pretends he has nothing more to say, as if the guilt isn’t coating his throating and trying to pull words up from the pit of his stomach.

What would he say? 

_“You tried to kill Wednesday.”_

_“I killed you.”_

_“Maybe I should have let you.”_

_“Maybe I should have joined you.”_

_“Maybe I should have listened to Laura, to you, to you, to you.”_

_“Maybe you know about lost treasure and you were just trying to spare me the same.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

Nothing comes out, and if Sweeney notices his silence, he does not call attention to it.

Sweeney glances up as Salim returns with another round, but he does not take the proffered glass, his eyes narrowing.

“We got a problem.”

Shadow follows his gaze but doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

“It’s a bar, people are drinking.” 

Sweeney has finally taken his drink and downed it quickly, as if gearing up for something.

"Look around, Shadow Moon; how many people were here when we started?"

Shadow tries to remember.

The bar didn’t have many patrons at first, and the three of them draw attention. Shadow supposes the combination of two men not of the milky white colour scheme the town normally boasts, plus an oversized redhead has left people curious.

There are more people now. 

He shrugs.

“It’s Friday night, it’s getting busy.”

Sweeney does not respond, instead begins to rack up the balls for another game. His voice is light as he addresses Salim.

“Grab us another round, would you?”

Salim studies him for a moment before complying, as if considering something, before nodding.

As he leaves Shadow sees people watching him and feels a bolt of anger.

“Why are you sending him for booze if you’re worried…things aren’t feeling too friendly now…”

“Best you go help him then.”

Sweeney’s face is impassive as he lights a cigarette, and Shadow wants very much to hit him with a pool cue, but instead turns to make sure Salim doesn’t get into any trouble. He finds him quickly at the bar only to feel a meaty hand land on his shoulder.

"Hey, fuckwad, you been hogging the table the last 30 minutes."

Shadow glares.

"It’s our table until beaten, that's what it says on the wall."

The other man, whose obligatory combination of trucker cap, lightly soiled shirt and jeans seems to be the Lakeview uniform, snarls.

"Those rules don't apply to cheaters."

Salim's face is too earnest for a bar like this, but his tone is firm.

"They have not cheated, sir. You are wrong."

“The fuck did you say to-“

Shadow steps in front of Salim.

"Hey, hey man, focus on me. I'm who you're pissed at."

The room feels dangerous, a tension to the air as if it’s waiting for something, wanting something, and every moment that something doesn’t happen increases the pressure until it’s a physical force against them.

A slur, a threat too close on this man’s tongue, and an edginess is spreading through the room. Shadow wants to glance around, look for Sweeney, but doesn’t want to risk breaking eye contact. He doesn’t have enough room to move, not with the place this packed and the man heavy with anger and drink.

“Now we’ll give back the table once we’ve-“

The man is clearly done talking and the haymaker he swings is backed by 250 pounds of heft.

Shadow winces but the impact never comes.

Instead a thickly muscled arm snaps into view from the right with such force that his attacker’s momentum is cut off and he goes flying.

Sweeney grunts, stepping over the man without another glance and slamming his empty glass on the bar. He slaps Shadow’s shoulder as he pushes his way past to get to the bathroom.

“Your round.”

Shadow stares at Sweeney’s retreating back while Salim smiles at him.

“He is unpleasant.”

Shadow nods, glancing down at the man on the floor, and Salim shrugs.

“Sometimes that’s a good thing.”

The bar tender seems to disagree, as do the large man's companions. The former produces a shotgun and the latter begin to crowd.

The math on the situation is quick, given the new patrons, and Shadow sees Sweeney grimace, turning back. He can’t help but notice the big man has deliberately moved to the other side of the bar where there is slightly more room to manoeuvre.

Sweeney sucks his teeth as he stares at the gun, and Shadow thinks that perhaps someone who cannot walk five steps without knocking himself out at the moment should be jumpier around firearms.

"Wasn't fuckin' done."

The bar tender’s arm shakes but his voice is firm.

"Yes you fuckin' are."

Sweeney catches Shadow's eye and there is a glint of something there, something full of mischief, and Shadow feels panic rise.

"Catch."

The move is quick but Shadow manages to catch the full bottle of whisky the big man has lifted from behind the bar and flung his way in one fluid movement. The bar tender is distracted by the movement and Sweeney uses the opportunity to twist up and under, the sawn off in his hands one moment and disappearing the next.

The crowd descends and Shadow kicks out as Salim jumps backwards, narrowly avoiding a bar stool. Sweeney ducks a swing only to catch a bottle to the side of the face, laughing like a lunatic as he heads butts the other man.

As fights do, this one is taking on a life of its own, and despite the number of people keen to get their kicks in against these strangers, more often than not they begin fighting themselves as well.

Shadow can no longer see Sweeney and cannot find Salim, but the formers’ voice is a bellow that cuts through the din.

"Go!"

It's an order and a laugh all at once and Shadow sees Sweeney grab Salim by the back of the shirt and haul him away, the three of them bolting out the back and down an alleyway.

They keep running until the thundering behind them stops, slipping round the back of the motel and into Shadow's room without further issue.

Salim is panting hard but Sweeney is lighting a cigarette, grinning widely despite the shards of glass still pressed into his cheek.

"A longer tussle would've been better," he exhales a plume of smoke into the dingy room as he pats a coughing, winded Salim on the back slightly too hard. "But that was some good fun."

Shadow wipes blood from his busted lip, realising he still has the bottle Sweeney had thrown him in his other hand.

“That was fucking fun to you?”

Sweeney shrugs.

“Powder kegs; sometimes it’s better to light the spark and get it done with.”

He thinks about the tension in the room, the easy slur, the willing crowd increasing as if to join in on some kind of fun. Thinks of Sweeney’s disturbing mix of logistical precision and chaotic lunacy. Thinks of an arm like a tree trunk appearing out of nowhere to send an attacker flying before Shadow could be hit, thinks of Salim being yanked out by his shirt, narrowly avoiding another hit.

Shadow's heart is hammering and the whisky in his hand is mid-range at best, but for some reason the laughter still builds in his throat, and he cannot help himself.

He's starting to like Sweeney.

***

Wednesday casts his eyes over where they are both leaning against the car.

“You two buddies now?”

Shadow hears a tension, well-hidden but poisoning the words. If Sweeney hears it he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t seem to care.

Shadow suspects maybe he’s used to it, and something about his silence feels like loss.

***

There is a strangeness to watching someone suffering who will not admit it.

Sweeney can pull gold from the sky but stares at the pieces as if he can turn one of them into the one he really needs.

He argues with birds, calling them cunts, telling them to fuck off and come back once they know where they witches are hiding.

He does errands and laughs and drinks like there is nothing wrong, like there isn’t anything but what’s ahead. And then his eyes will shift as if he sees something, a veil lifting and then dropped again, and Shadow can see a man bereft without understanding why.

Salim’s eyes grow more and more reproachful, and Shadow wonders what they’re really protecting.

***

The confrontation with Hinzelmann had been nothing short of horrifying.

_Falling into the ice, the shock and horror of so many children’s corpses, only to wake up in a bathtub and feel the first pang of relief at the familiar face._

_And then…_

_The horrible childlike voice and the memory of children sacrificed, their blood running through a town that should have died decades ago, kept alive on stolen time._

_He had been frozen in a way he had never really felt before, the grotesque cruelty all too much for him. Unable to move, unable to think with this air so thick with secrets and a feral child turned black hole for children’s bodies._

_And that’s when the truck had come slamming through the front of the cabin._

It had taken him a while to speak, enough time for Sweeney to open the cabin of the truck and hop down, taking his time as he walked over to where Hinzelmann has been flung into the walk, head hanging at an awkward angle.

Sweeney stared for a moment, older and far away, before reaching out to grip the corpse’s hair and plant boot on its sternum. It’s a sickening sound, the ripping and tearing of flesh and muscle, a crunch of bone, and then Sweeney is staring into a gruesome trophy.

Shadow can see his expression in the reflection of the window rendered mirror-like by the darkness outside. For a moment he looks tense and haunted and a little bit feral himself, but then Shadow clears his throat and Sweeney turns, the head in his hands disappearing into thin air.

Shadow stretches, steps out, and tries to piece things together.

“Keeping something for later?”

“Something to be repaid.”

Shadow reaches for what little he knows of Sweeney and his complicated miasma of debts owed and owing.

“So…he’s a faery?”

Sweeney is genuinely disgusted as he hauls the corpse towards the fireplace.

“What? Fuck no. He’s a fuckin’ kobold…a sprite.”

Shadow swallows.

“He looked like a child, so many spear wounds…they killed him.”

Sweeney is unmoved as he throws the body into the flames, not looking away as the heat causes steam to rise from the clothing.

“Sure, ain’t like we start out based on the happiest moments of mankind, do we?”

Shadow ignores the ‘we’ in favour of the ‘why’.

“But…sacrifices of children…every year.”

It’s not a question but he leaves it hanging between them as the body begins to smoulder.

“He is what they made him.”

Not good enough.

“So nothing else would have worked? No other sacrifice would have kept him going? They were fucking kids!”

Sweeney shakes his head.

“Not the same, not as well. Besides…the town kept doing it.”

He turns away from the fire for a moment and when their eyes meet Shadow sees something older and very, very far away.

“Why would you accept less than what they were willing to offer?”

Shadow studies Sweeney a moment and the big man rolls his eyes at the unasked question.

“No.”

“How can I-“

“Look …whatever the fuck you want to think of my lot as, they get plenty of justified heat for the whole changeling thing, fairy rings…I get it. But that ain’t my bag.”

“What’d people leave for you?”

Sweeney shrugs as he lights a cigarette.

“Bread, piece o’ fruit, milk, sometimes spiced. Honey was good.”

Shadow stares at Sweeney’s faraway smile.

“One time…one time a coin.”

Shadow thinks about one coin versus hundreds of children being sacrificed in your name each year.

“Just once?”

Sweeney studies his lighter, flicking it open and closed a few times, before sending it away again.

“You only leave a coin like this once. This coin was the only thing to give, only thing left to offer. Given freely.”

He exhales. “Makes fer a heady spell.”

Shadow knows he shouldn’t do this, he should change the subject or go silent, but he cannot help himself. He has resisted testing Sweeney’s memory too much but he can still feel the cold dirt under his fingers from where he had set the coin atop her grave.

He has to know.

“And where is it now?”

Sweeney’s face darkens.

“Stolen. A witch, a thief, someone’s stolen it. And when I find ‘em,” he inhales. “I’ll suck the marrow from their bones.”

Shadow stays quiet and Sweeney lights another cigarette and continues in a lighter tone as he moves around the cabin, grabbing books and pieces of paper.

“Pixies’ll be a bastard for that, thought it was funny leading little ones into fae realms.”

The return to the previous subject makes Shadow’s head spin but Sweeney continues unfazed as he trails the books and paper close to the fire, close enough to catch. He kicks over a can of gas in the corner of the room.

“Gotta watch out for rings, easy to wander in and get stuck there. Used to find little ones wanderin’ ‘round Backstage.”

“Kids?”

The books and paper have begun to catch and Sweeney gestures to the truck. He rolls it forward until it's out of the cabin, and then gets out to lean against the hood.

“Yup. Pixies have dark humour. Good for kickin’ though, punts like a football.”

The flames have begun to lick and tickle their way over the wood of the cabin, and Shadow stares as the bright blaze cuts a firey path through the nights' sky.

Something tugs at Shadow’s memory as he thinks of gods with eyes of fire on a beach strewn with bones. The Backstage.

Wednesday refusing Sweeney access to the carnival ride back at House on the Rock.

“You can get to the-“

“I could. In a way.”

There is a loud bang at the gas cannister explodes, and the cabin is now fully engulfed. 

The pause seems to stretch but Shadow has learned enough to know when not to speak, and Sweeney’s voice has a rasp to it as he continues.

“A long time ago.”

There’s a bite to his words and his are haunted once again as he climbs back into the truck. Shadow knows he’ll not speak on it any further and doesn't push, nor say thank you for being saved. He thinks he can almost feel it, the life debt, but finds it does not sit with him as poorly as the guilt gnawing away at his stomach like a rat into a corpse.

As they drive away Shadow watches the flames grow smaller in the rear view mirror, until all he can see is the night sky and its dazzling array of stars.


	15. Chapter 15

**Lakeside, 2 months after a dead man came back to life**

It’s not sleeping, not really.

It’s more akin to the heavy weighted exhaustion of someone who doesn’t need to be awake any longer. He doesn’t drift off so much as just stop entirely, not a restful rejuvenation, just a blank space until he’s awake again.

So it doesn’t matter that he’s sprawled in the back of a truck in a motel parking lot. He doesn’t need to park it here just because Shadow and the Jinn are here, and thus Salim is here too. But it’s easy, and takes less thinking, and these days that’s welcome.

Sweeney doesn’t sleep for long, meaning he’s often up early enough to see the sex workers gathering post evening, tricks slinking out of their rooms too quickly to see the amusement in their eyes. 

The motel car park is blessedly empty and he grabs coffee from the shitty machine, ready to watch the sunrise.

It’s cold here, colder than it should be, but when the sun comes up over the trees and sets the snow and icicles alight he briefly feels surrounded by diamonds, by jewels, by gold. He has not been through his hoard in a while and could not answer a question of why.

Still, it’s quiet as the early morning sunlight sends gold and pink over snow that looks far cleaner than it is, and there’s something beautiful about that.

Besides, he’s had good early morning interactions with the workers, who are often willing to take on an extra client who tips well.

Not this morning though.

This morning he watches Salim take advantage of the pre-dawn air, setting his mat on the carpet of his room with the door open.

Allah does not need human prayers; he has no needs at all. But Salat-al-fajr is completed every morning before the dawn, and while normally Sweeney would relish the opportunity for mockery, today he has little interest in it.

Something stops him from the mockery. Maybe it’s because he can respect the belief and the sheer faith, or maybe because he can feel the ritual of it all.

Maybe it’s something else, something he can’t quite place, something that gave him peace once while he was watching the same sight.

(He can’t remember, of course, but we can.

We can see a guilty, hungry man staring at a dead girl staring at prayer. For every second of nicotine laced peace she enjoyed, we saw him take twice as much confusion, frustration, regret and longing.

We know these things, he does not.)

Regardless, he sits on the hood of his truck, ignoring the groan of metal under his weight, and smokes his cigarette in silence.

(And if there is a question as to why the door is open, and how often Salim has noticed he has a watcher, then it is left unanswered and happily so.)

Salim finishes and stands, smiling at him, and once again he has that desire to recoil from the naked openness in the man’s eyes. Salim still holds his mat to his chest, coming outside to stand in front of the truck.

“Did you sleep well?”

Sweeney dreamt of birds and Essie and woken up to the taste of ants in his mouth. He ignores the question.

“Your boy ever join you for this little yoga session?”

Salim smiles as he shakes his head, and there is no reproach in his eyes. Sweeney can’t help himself.

He has to know.

He always has to know.

“What are you doing here? What’s Wednesday got on you?”

He watches Salim freeze in place, staring at the mat in his hands, which shake with a barely perceptible tremor.

Salim finally looks up and his voice is wary.

“I am here because the Jinn is here. And the Jinn is here,” he takes a strange, shuddering breath. “…because he owes Mr Wednesday.”

“Collects a lot of debt, don’t he?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. It’s the right thing to say. He wishes he hadn’t said it. He has no idea why.

(He does not suit confusion, an ill-fitting vest that leaves his chest tight and his anger even closer to the surface, banging guilty hands against his ribcage.)

Those big, liquid eyes are staring at him with a naked hope, and he wants to hit him so he doesn’t feel this strange guilt for disappointing him. It annoys him, this little man with his big eyes and openness, this strangely powerful vulnerability.

“The Jinn and me we have to stay ‘cause we owe Wednesday. But you-“

“What if you didn’t?”

The interruption feels jarring, like someone has forgotten their lines for this play. Sweeney stares at the now edgy man in front of him.

“What?”

“What would you do if…if your debt was repaid. If you were free?”

He feels his body freeze in place, thinks of that strange feeling of a slate wiped clean, a debt repaid, of guilt having been lifted.

He thinks of his mind in pieces and his weight lifted, his soul less whole than ever but his body all too aware that it is no longer under the ownership of another.

He shakes his head.

“Dreams. That’s all.”

Salim goes to speak and he finds himself unwilling to play this game.

“You fuck one genie and suddenly you know how this works, is that it? Fuck off.”

He walks away, keen to empty his bladder against an alley wall and not have to stay here with this little man and his earnestness, his questions.

The voice that reaches him is quiet, but he’s not foolish enough to think that means weakness.

“You had a family, once. A wife. A kingdom. You have had love.”

Sweeney freezes but does not turn and the quiet voice continues.

“You should understand. Even now, you should understand.”

Eorann’s curls and Moira’s wide eyes and the ants, so many fucking ants, briefly consume his entire being. The memory blurs and he watches Essie ride foolish men for safety and leave out bread for him for luck.

And briefly, on the edges of his existence, a gap. A blank spot. Not a shadow but a clear lack of something that should be there, _must_ be there, but isn’t.

Salim has caught up to him and stands in front of him, shaky but straight backed.

“You asked me once if Wednesday told the Jinn to kill me, whether I thought he would do it. You asked the wrong question.”

Sweeney doesn’t move. He remembers a conversation but has no context, no real understanding of the why or wherefore of meeting and knowing this little man. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, this lack of anchor in a sea of splintered memories, but something about it feels raw and fresh, like a wound just creeping towards infection.

Salim places a hand on his forearm, prayer mat at his side.

“You should have asked whether I would forgive him for it. Whether I knew it was a risk. Whether I would have stayed anyway.”

Sweeney stares at the sun rising over the parking lot before pushing past Salim and out into the town.

***

“You aren’t sleeping enough. That’s why you look like an old newspaper. Gotta moisturise.”

Wednesday is sipping his coffee with his pinkie out, and Sweeney grits his teeth.

“Never know when the fuckin’ roof’s gonna cave in on me. Satellite drop on my head, dog decide to make me its bitch.”

Wednesday doesn’t react and he leans forward.

“I need…I need my fucking coin back.”

“They’re working on it.”

“Your fuckin’ buzzards need to get a goddamn move on.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrow at his tone.

“That’s not all, is it?”

He’s not used to this questioning, this oddly reassuring tone. It makes him wary, if only for how much he wants to lean into it, to quell the loneliness. He glances at the other end of the table, but finds nothing in the other man’s expression.

“I…”

Wednesday studies him before seeming to come to a decision.

“You died.”

It’s out there, they both have known it, but he wasn’t expecting it to be acknowledged. He holds his tongue.

“Whatever, whoever brought you back…they stole something from you. And me.”

Sweeney shouldn’t be back, he knows that. Not on the whiff of belief in a cereal box mascot, not from the paltry ideas of luck and faith that exist today.

But here he is. Stronger than ever, and mind like a sieve. Missing pieces.

He blinks.

“Memories?”

Wednesday nods slowly.

“Think maybe it has something to do with your coin.”

He searches Wednesday’s face for a trap, searches his mind for a warning, but he cannot find what he’s looking for. Instead there is only honesty and perhaps a bit of apology.

“I need it back.”

Wednesday nods.

“I may have someone I can speak to. You’ll need to keep watch here.”

It’s not a firm dismissal but Sweeney is willing to take it as one, standing and nodding.

“You fuckin’ tell me when, and who.”

Wednesday nods, and Sweeney strides out of the café without a glance back at his dining companions. The former watches the latter's retreating back before turning back to his other dining companion.

"Well, that went well, don't you think?"

On the other side of the table Shadow Moon is silent, his hands clenched into fists in his lap.

***

“No.”

_Home and Garden_

“No?”

_Lovely lawns of Lakeside_

“No.”

_Flowers for dummies_

Wednesday is looking through a series of gardening magazines, picking them up and clucking his tongue when they don’t have whatever magic horticultural ingredient he seems to be searching for.

It’s oddly infuriating as Wednesday continues to shut down his request without even looking at him, and Shadow swallows thickly before pushing forward.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

_Potting soil parade_

“Do what?”

“Lie to him…you’ve seen him. He’s barely holding it together.”

Wednesday sighs and puts back _Nine nocturnal nurseries_ with an expression of disgust.

“Alliteration aside you just can’t respect that find of font placement.”

He glances at Shadow’s face and rolls his eyes.

“He’s used to his mind being Swiss cheese. He’s fine, getting the job done.”

“Are you serious? He nearly broke an arm last week getting in a fight with a letter box. He lost.”

“Why do you care? He’s watching your back, I need you safe, and you gotta admit it’s funny when he can’t get his boots to stay tied.”

“We owe him the truth.”

Wednesday is moving like quicksilver before he can finish the sentence, his voice deceptively mild but a flash of madness in his eyes.

“We owe _nothing_.”

Shadow is frozen by the sudden change in demeanour and Wednesday exhales slowly and calmly. His eyes are cold when he starts to speak.

“You know, you’re meant to be a lot more joyful…maybe you need to get laid?”

Shadow doesn’t distinguish the comment with a response, but some part of him, deep down, wonders why the fuck he is back here. Wednesday is comfortable with his silence, as always.

“For weeks he watched her. Waited. Studied her.”

It’s like a punch to the gut, a jolt to his system, something he knows but has not let himself consider.

_“He had me killed, did you know that? He had me killed to get me out of your way.”_

Shadow feels ill as Wednesday steps closer, his words marching Shadow unrelentingly towards that clenched feeling of anger and guilt.

“He's wanted her since before you went to fucking prison. Who do you think sabotaged the heist?”

_“He_ had me _killed to get me out of your way.”_

__

You think he doesn't remember doing that? He may not know the why or the what, but did you ever wonder how he recognised you?”

_“…_ had me _killed.”_

Shadow did and didn’t, could and couldn’t. But that day Sweeney had shown up at the graveyard with a shiny new life, twice the strength and half the luck, he had certainly known who Shadow was.

Shadow’s brain tells him three things

  1. Sweeney fucked his life…
  2. at Wednesday's instruction…
  3. and remembers at least part of that.



He swallows thickly and Wednesday can sense his indecision with the same accuracy as a shark scents blood in the water.

“Jesus Shadow, the man got you thrown in prison and killed your wife while she sucked off your best friend. And then when she couldn’t even have the decency to stay dead he decided to play bitch, follow her around the country, and then fuck her.”

Wednesday sighs and his voice shifts, softens, and a part of Shadow wants to lean into the reassurance of it.

“And then when he attacked you, you killed him.”

The genuine sympathy makes his throat close.

(But that’s not what happened, is it? He wanted nothing more than for you to get out of the way that night. He warned you. He got you to promise him. And he remembers none of that)

“Whatever this new loyalty is…remember who you swore an oath to, and why. You don’t like gods? Well leprechauns aren’t exactly beacons of humanity either.”

It’s well delivered, sincere enough to be compelling, carefully laid out without being too obvious a trap. Shadow can see it for exactly what it is; a picnic blanket laid out over a precipice, but it’s still hard to look away.

Wednesday turns back to the stand and lets out a happy cry.

“Ah, of course!”

He plucks out a copy of _Fearsome Flowers and Worrisome Weeds_ and heads to the counter while Shadow stares at the fluorescent light, wishing he was anyone else.

***

They walk silently, and Salim doesn't mind.

He can wait.

In front of a bookstore the Jinn finally turns to him.

“There is a call. I must go.”

Salim nods.

“I will wait.”

The Jinn stares a moment.

“Why?”

Yesterday Salim may have said “for love” or “for faith” or “for you”. Today he stares into the distance a moment.

“It is too cold here.”

The Jinn remains silent until Salim looks back at him.

“But I think that, perhaps, it is exactly where I am meant to be.”

The Jinn stares, and it feels like fire, like being heated from the inside out, like being kissed fiercely and powerfully and joyfully, like being pressed against the frozen window of a bookshop and enjoying the coolness on your back for the heat being produced inside you.

The Jinn stares and then he leaves, and Salim reaches his fingers out to the cold glass, and lets it cool him from the outside.

***

_Shadow thinks of his mother._

_When he was young he had discovered Dr Seuss in a library. He had devoured the stories, loving the reassuring consistency of the rhyme scheme, the interesting break from prose, the way the pictures took him on a journey into nonsense._

_His mother had found him and sat down quietly as he poured over Horton Hears a Who, and when he'd asked her to read it to him, she had obliged._

_Later she would talk about Theodor Seuss Geisel, his subtle racism, the complexity of a human who brought such joy but still wrote minstrel shows and performed in blackface. She would walk him through Seuss as an example of humanity; tolerance and critical analysis in some, harmful stereotypes and tropes in others. All in the one man._

_But first she read to him, let him absorb and enjoy, and process._

_Shadow still remembers that line from Horton, the tiny Whos crying out to let the world know they were there, fighting against the world's desire to believe they weren't right there on the dandelion._

"We are here, we are here, we are here."

_Sometimes, when he fights the urge to hit Sweeney, he thinks of that catch cry. Of what it means for a deity to fall into cereal box charms and green tinted mockery. He thinks about that last night at Cairo and the horrible power of it, the clear remnants of something more. He thinks of the straighter back, the fierce protectiveness, and strength and clear vulnerability._

_I am here, I am here, I am here._

_Recoil, but don't forget._

“What I never got, see, is how that bearded fire dick ever managed to get a human to fuck him in the first place. Ain’t the eyes a turn off?”

In moments like this, Shadow struggles with a deep desire to crush the dandelion.

Shadow stares. Salim stares. Sweeney keeps rolling his cigarette, stretched across the back seat as they head into town once more.

The Jinn had arrived at the counter as Wednesday paid, and while the mechanics of it escaped him, that somehow led to Shadow being clearly and comfortably dismissed. After he’d left the newsagent, Wednesday’s words weighing heavily on his mind, Shadow had found Salim in town.

He’d brought the truck, they’d picked up Sweeney, and all three had found themselves heading out on yet another errand without quite knowing how they got there.

And now…this.

Salim sighs.

“Perhaps for some.”

Sweeney clearly wants to push further and Shadow feels his patience wearing thin, Wednesday’s words making him tense, his skin prickly and his tone sharp.

“Leave him be.” 

Shadow swallows thickly as Sweeney’s eyes narrow. He’d hoped to silence the big man, but somehow it’s had the opposite effect, those hazel eyes locking in on him from the backseat.

“Tell me then, Shadow Moon…jealous? Wantin’ someone to warm your sheets? Missin’ a missus?”

The air in the car seems heavy, like its decided to slow down and still entirely lest it disturb whatever string of tension is tightening so rapidly.

Shadow goes for honesty.

“No, not really.”

It should be enough to cease the discussion, and maybe with someone else it would be, but Sweeney has found the thread and intends to pull it until the sweater unravels.

“Ah, but you had one, hey? A girlfriend…a wife?”

He thinks of Sweeney in his room the night before the last supper, thinks of his warnings and his mild mockery, his genuine concern. He thinks of the easy way the man intervenes in fights, comfortable stepping in the way. He doesn't mind getting hit, that's what makes him so fucking good at it, but it's like he needs to counter any goodwill with scapel-like incisiveness.

He can't leave well enough alone, and if that's not a test, Shadow's not sure what is.

“Yes. Once.”

"She gone now?" 

He watches for any flicker of deception on Sweeney's face, and hint of a game played and sees nothing. 

"Yeah...she died."

Sweeney tilts his head, sympathetic but unable (or unwilling) to resist prodding the wound. 

"How?" 

"Sucking off her best friend's husband while he was driving."

It's like someone else is speaking with his voice, and Shadow knows if he looked closely that someone would have an oily smile. He feels dirty, his words are ugly, and the guilt is clogging his throat.

Salim shoots Shadow a look of such disappointment he briefly feels every pound of his own reductive shit, but he pushes past. Sweeney has not been privy to his confusion and his tone is thoughtful.

"Sounds like a right cunt."

It’s as close to comforting as Sweeney can get, but as the big man ashes his cigarette out the window, Shadow can't let it stand. 

"No...she was," he exhales, trying to think of the right words.

"Complicated, and human."

He wasn’t what she needed. He wanted her and she wanted him and she wanted, really wanted, to want them. But she didn’t need that.

_He sees her._

_Blood drenched on a train after she’d come to rescue him, crushing a man’s skull._

_In the graveyard, pretty floral dress all dirty and her skin clear and shining in the autumn sunlight. Pretending she didn’t care about Sweeney’s death and looking closer to herself, closer to honesty, closer to something a little feral and a lot filthy and more than anything true._

_Not his melancholy beauty. Not pretending or serving up the parts he’d find most attractive, most desirable, most gentle and relatable._

_Plotting to kill a god and hiding the pain of losing another, but herself. Raw and a bit gritty, like gravel in a wound, but entirely her._

She hadn’t needed him. She’d needed someone who pushed and saw her grit and grime and the beauty in it.

“She loved me...I just wasn't what she really needed.”

He is briefly frozen by the truth in the statement, and Sweeney is quick to notice, pausing a moment before speaking quietly.

"A sentiment that normally cuts both ways."

Shadow stares and Salim hides his smile. 

"You might be right about that." 

Sweeney shrugs, leaning forward to push his cigarette out into the ashtray of the car, burned too many times by a cigarette coming back at him through the window.

"Either way, no matter now. Dead Wife is dead wife."

He is looking once again out the rear view mirror, so he doesn’t catch Salim's smile slip, a genuine sadness crossing his face.

Shadow stares at the ashtray with its wisping curls of smoke, the cigarette still throwing off embers, and wonders what it would take to fan them back to life.

***

“We have a road trip to go on.”

The Jinn does not let his expression change. He has known this was coming, known Wednesday had been making arrangements to travel somewhere distinctly not here.

“Why not take the meathead?”

“Cool kids only.”

Wednesday’s amused smile is light and calm and it’s enough to set his teeth on edge. He is well aware that he is off to watch some heinous breach of confidence that would not normally be of concern to him. Gods a pricks, of course they will sometimes make one another bleed.

But with the leprechaun back and these bindings feeling tighter than ever he can feel something intensify.

_“You will be my eyes, you will not speak my secrets.”_

Salim’s concern has grown and the Jinn’s tongue feels frozen, a block of ice, unable to communicate.

But he is a creature of fire, and the heat is building.

***

“We have to tell him.”

Salim’s voice is not pleading but there is a deep concern in his eyes.

Shadow doesn’t turn to the doorway of his motel room and wonders at the fact that the Jinn is once again not around, suspects that is by design. He knows Wednesday is leaving early tomorrow morning with the Jinn in tow, and wonders if Salim has planned this so they are alone.

He wonders why.

“We can’t, you know that.”

It’s the truth, right? He’s trying to hard to fend off Wednesday’s words but there’s some truth in it, he thinks.

Salim is unconvinced.

“He needs to remember…things.”

Something about the choice of words pricks at him, flares his temper.

“Laura. You want him to remember Laura.”

Salim sighs.

“His last night, at Cairo…you saw him. He was different. More.”

Shadow says nothing, thinks about fighting Sweeney, about his huge body stealing away Gungnir and raining down coins as he’d died. He tries not to think about how many times he washed his hands afterwards.

“No.”

“Why?”

Shadow stares at the cup in his hand as the pieces come together. He knows why. He knows exactly why. He doesn’t know why he knows why, but he does indeed know why.

“Because it isn’t ours.”

“What?”

“We didn’t take it, we don’t have it.”

“What are you talking about? We just need to tell him the truth.”

Shadow shakes his head.

“No, the truth won’t bring his memory back.”

“I don’t understand.”

It comes together clearly for him, and he starts to trust it.

“Whatever we can give back it’s just…our version of it. Not the real thing. Not the memories. Not the parts we couldn’t see.”

Salim studies him.

“You…are afraid of him knowing what you did.”

Shadow exhales. The man ruined his life, got him sent to prison, fucked his wife…he’s angry, right? Furious even.

And yet, he’s finding it hard to blame him, truly blame him, not when Wednesday’s calm tone and disturbingly compelling words are writ so large in his own skull. And the truth is he doesn’t want to have to kill Sweeney again, but the strain of these omissions is starting to wear him thin.

He shakes his head.

“That doesn’t matter; Wednesday can play whatever games he wants. But what Sweeney needs, we don’t fucking have. Just our own bit and pieces. Would you believe it?”

Salim is silent as he continues.

“Seriously. He’s one of them, kinda, but really think about it. A corpse with his coin in its chest, a dead woman he follows around the country because…why, exactly? He could have taken the fucking coin back any time he wanted, even with her supercharged. How would we make him believe he’d walked so fucking far from Wednesday’s path that by the end he was ready to run him through?”

Salim’s sadness makes him ill, and he can see his words hitting home. The other man’s voice is small, and Shadow suspects this isn’t the only thing over which he is feeling failure.

“I have no other way to provide someone with their memories.”

They sit in silence a moment.

“What…what if he saw her?”

Shadow sighs.

“We’ve got no clue where she is, and even if we did…so what? You think one glance at her will bring it all back?”

Neither of them is that naïve, but they are both silent for a moment, and perhaps they share a moment of hope.

Their moment is not a private one.

Outside the door the Jinn is frozen, wishing he was able to leave, wishing he could walk away from this and his ears and oath wouldn’t make him betray the conversation.

For the first time in his long, long life, he pushes back against the bindings that surround him.

The pain is like ice, lancing across his being, splintering him with a threatened nonexistence.

He leaves to find Wednesday, but wants to disappear. 


	16. Chapter 16

Mad Sweeney dreams of a woman with red hair and a cheeky grin and a loaf of fresh bread.

Mad Sweeney dreams of the dirt against his skin and someone's tears falling into his grave.

Mad Sweeney dreams of witch who calls him down dark roads, her fingers glinting with golden rings.

Mad Sweeney dreams of sunlight and wakes with his hands burning.

*******

**12 hours from Lakeside, Wisconsin**

**Kentucky**

**A beautiful mansion surrounded by barren land**

It’s a stunning day.

The sunlight illuminates the subtle lace of her tablecloth, sparkles against the crystal of her waterglass. Her sound system (top of the line and discreetly wired through the house) tinkles out a delicate Bach, unassuming and beautifully gentle in the mid-afternoon haze.

Once she would have taken her tea on the balcony, enjoyed the sight of lush land below, delighted in the heat of fertile ground and the heady scent of growth, loam and rich earth.

No more.

She stays inside now, and wonders.

_He’d dressed quickly afterwards, not out of any desire to bolt from her, just out of his disinterest in staying._

_That was familiar enough to sting._

_As he’d left he had given in to the curiosity, well aware that her lines about Wednesday were too contrived, no matter how gaping the gaps in memory were._

_“Why…why’d you bring me back?”_

_She had wanted to tell him then. Wanted to explain her strange sense of shifting being, a slow realisation that as life and dawn and creation were a gift, they could not align with war, with destruction, with harm. She wants to tell him about his final night, about what Bilquis had said, about the strange and cyclical opportunity that had presented itself when he was killed in battle and a woman sought to bring him back into being._

_She wanted him to remember in that moment, his final moments, wanted him to feel whatever furious and wild fire had briefly blazed. She wanted him to remember those embers and how they had_ _blown to a flame in his last hours on earth._

_But the memories were beyond her reach, she’d barely even glanced at them as she’d plucked and tucked them away, and now…_

_“Call it a favour for an old friend.”_

_It was cute, a little on the nose, but she supposed clichés exist for a reason._

_He’d studied her with his keen wolf eyes, unsure but well aware he was being deceived by omission, and she made no apologies._

_A being like her does not apologise to a being like him._

_He is who he is; deceived he may be but he still thanks her, genuinely, and she feels the weight of a debt being lifted. It’s an odd feeling, a lightening of burden she had no idea she was carrying, and she stifles the urge to throw a Jimmy Choo at his big head._

_As he leaves she can’t help but shake the feeling that apologies are owed, and that she will not get the chance to make them._

She exhales.

She is not used to regrets, not now, not after this long.

Something in the air shifts and a bunny tinkles at her feet. She listens carefully and pulls out a bright pink phone, thinking for a moment before clicking out a text and sending it off into the ether.

It is too little and too much all at once, and she hopes beyond hope it is exactly enough.

Her tea, an incredible da-hong pao, is ready. The air is perfumed with a woody sweetness, the smoky muscatel of an after dinner wine chasing the gentler tones.

The pot is stunning, delicate white porcelain with the prettiest, daintiest whisper of blue flowers twining around it, a pattern mimicked on the lovely matching cups. She pours her tea with care, appreciating the richness of the steeped leaves, the amber liquid a thousand years and more of battle and joy.

“Well, my dear. Such a thoughtful gift.”

The cup smashes against the floor, hot liquid spilling over polished wood as the voice behind her makes her jump.

She turns and doesn’t bother to smile at Odin.

“You’re here.”

He gives a shallow bow and her skin crawls.

“You seem disappointed, darling.”

She is disappointed, but not surprised, and as he moves further into the room his conversational tone does little to calm her heartbeat.

He strokes his hand over the mantelpiece, rich wenge with its distinctive dark striped beauty, and she refuses to stand on ceremony for him. He draws a magazine from his jacket with a smile.

"A gift...after all, I've so much to say thank you for."

He keeps moving and she doesn't bother glancing at the glossy paper he places on the table.

“I have to say, darling, I’m surprised you would be so generous as to send back my errand boy.” He gives her an innocent expression that makes her want to gag. “Here I was thinking perhaps you were angry with me after the little tiff with your poor bunnies.”

He gives her a mocking frown, eyebrows raised apologetically.

She gives him a charming smile; she can play this game.

“So he’s been helpful, then?”

It’s said with genuine interest, as if she doesn’t have tea on her shoes and ice in her heart.

“Apart from having the luck of a drunk in a Buddhist temple, he’s better than ever. Almost like someone caught him on the edge of something and forgot about his little obsession with fate.”

She thinks for a moment of his coin, still settled in a dead girl’s chest, and wonders what exactly he came back with…and without.

Odin sits down and pours himself a cup of tea into the remaining teacup, his tone thoughtful.

“Of course, it does beg the question…how exactly did you bring him back?” His eyes are cold and his smile colder. “Professional curiosity, you understand.”

She shrugs prettily.

“Events aligned, his ember glowed.”

Grimnir nods, sipping a beverage worth more than most homes.

“And there you were to fan it, ready to support your fellow deities.”

Ostara wants to grit her teeth and argue the comparison - she is _not_ like any of them - but she lets the dig pass unanswered.

She will give him nothing.

Instead she stands and catches her reflection in a mirror. Her dress is a magnificent butter yellow, her hair an elegant updo, a spray of pink lilies set against one side of her head. They match the pale pink of her heels perfectly

She always looked beautiful in pink.

Ostara pulls her shoulders back.

She is the dawn and she will not go cringing.

Wednesday’s lip curls and she feels a moment of pleasure at not rising to his bait.

“But you held something back?”

_“The leprechaun will not be your spear; he will go to her first.”_

_“Not if he doesn’t remember her.”_

She turns to the window by the mirror, stares out at her decimated land and thinks of the Dead Girl. It had made sense at the time; she couldn’t have him distracted.

Bilquis had tried to warn her, asked her to consider her intentions, her impact. The Queen hadn’t received her due in some time and yet there she was, standing tall and fierce, and Ostara had briefly trembled at the power there. But she was the dawn, and she would not be swayed.

She hadn’t listened, hadn’t understood how much of his willingness to confront, to push, to stand up to Wednesday that night had stemmed from the corpse of another man’s wife.

_“I don’t want her to be dead.”_

_“Reason being?”_

_“Selfish reasons.”_

She wonders for a moment what exactly happened to him, to the girl, to _them_. She wonders how the Dead Girl found her elixir, how the coin stayed in her chest for so long, how he’d been laid to rest so gently in the earth rather than left to Mr Ibis’ tender ministrations, or rotted away in some filthy trailer.

She knew the anchor would work but perhaps she should have spent more time considering why all those lovely coincidences had lined up that way. Maybe it wasn’t just her skill, but something else…a million to once chance that the universe saw as an opportunity.

She looks back to the mirror and sees Wednesday behind her, and knows she won’t be thinking of those things for much longer.

“Yes. I held something back.”

“Why?”

She sighs.

“A foolish hope that it would keep him from being distracted. I thought, Grimnir, he would be his former glory, golden fury ready to rain down on you.”

She finds it a relief to be speaking so bluntly for once.

He laughs, a dark and ugly sound, ringing through her beautiful drawing room until his chuckles die down.

“That meathead is so fucking splintered he’s two concussions away from being a cereal box mascot. You thought he’d be…that?”

She stays silent but files away his mockery, and wonders how much fear is underlying it. Ostara begins to wonder if perhaps million to one chances really do crop up nine times out of ten.

The coin…that fucking coin.

“I misjudged.”

It’s the truth and a terrible, terrible lie all at once.

Wednesday smiles but the glint in his eyes spells war, spells bloodshed, and she is briefly relieved that he is still the reckless, selfish being he pretends to be beyond now.

He cannot possibly understand why she was wrong, how she was wrong.

But she is the dawn, and she knows the power in a moment, the fleeting fierceness of the briefest slice of time. She is the cycle of spring and relife and rebirth and resurrection and death…the former unable to occur without the latter.

She cannot bring herself to lie about this part.

“Hundreds of years. Thousands. How was I to know that a flicker of a moment in time would mean so much?”

Wednesday nods. She’d kept the girl back, he’d known that much already, and damn if that isn't insight into how much he'd been impacted by the little dead thing...

“And now it’s gone?”

It’s brief but an easy read, and despite the end being very fucking nigh, she feels a pang of satisfaction at his hope…and his fear.

Ostara’s smile is lovely as a rose and just as thorny.

“You are afraid, Allfather. You can’t see.”

He does not move closer to her but she sees the subtle shift in his expression, like the veneer of civility he uses so effectively being briefly dissolved, exposing the underlying core at the heart of him, borne of blood and obsessive destruction, glory and gore.

“You brought him back, you held back his memories; where are they?”

“You need them.”

“I need my fucking spear.”

A movement in the doorway catches her attention.

The Jinn, hands behind his back and eyes hidden behind dark glasses, a silent participant in their little discussion.

She smiles at him sadly.

“You’ll never escape with his eye on you.” 

His expression gives nothing away but she is wise enough to read between those lines.

She can see now her error writ large but she finds she does not regret it. Not with _him_ walking around, not with what she knows now is coming.

Maybe she should have stepped back and thought more about all those lovely coincidences lining up, and wondered if she wasn’t also a part of it. The universe pulling its strange threads together so beautifully.

“Where the fuck are his memories?”

Wednesday’s cultured voice is ugly and rough.

“Somewhere you can’t find them.”

“Tell me and you might have a chance to come back one day.”

She nods, a compact.

“Hidden in the treasure.”

Wednesday smiles his cold, cold smile and Ostara wonders how he can be so brilliant and so fucking short sighted all at once.

“Well…he always did love gold.”

She keeps her eye on him as he nods to the Jinn in the doorway, keeps her eyes on him as she hears the knife being pulled. She holds Wednesday’s eyes, lets him try to find her secrets as the Jinn runs her through.

The pain is brief but intense, offset by the satisfaction of Grimnir being unable to spot her secrets.

She turns to the window as she feels the light fade out of her and wishes she could speak to Bilquis, to Media, to someone who would have cared about her.

_Oh darling…what have I done?_

The dawn disappears in an explosion of butterflies, all of them the prettiest shade of pale pink.

***

The Jinn is silent as he drives them back but Wednesday is waxing lyrical.

“The coin. Always the fucking coin with that guy.”

The Jinn is silent as he thinks of creation, and life, and butterflies.

“No matter. I think we have a way through.”

The Jinn is silent and feels invisible bonds cutting deeply into his flesh.

He drives on.

Eventually the weather cools even more and they are once again on the outskirts of lakeside, icicles dropping from awnings and smashing into a thousand diamonds against the ground.

The Jinn is silent and his hands feel like ice against the steering wheel. He wonders whether he will shatter too. 

**

**Lakeside, Wisconsin**

"You need to go to Chicago. You'll find him there."

Shadow grits his teeth, frustrated by the sudden arrival of the Jinn and the more sudden announcement.

“But what about Wedn-“

“Wednesday will be otherwise detained. He has asked you to handle this for him, the two of you.”

Salim is silent as he watches the exchange and Shadow thinks perhaps that’s worth noting.

Shadow tries to figure out what he’s seeing in the Jinn’s posture. There’s something to the stillness, like information being held back, a forced calm. He takes a shot in the dark.

“And Sweeney?”

"Sweeney will not be joining you on this errand."

It is clear the Jinn won’t be sharing anything further.

"So he gets to avoid a long ass drive and we a spider god. Great."

Shadow doesn’t see the Jinn’s fist clench briefly.

But Salim does. 

***

He hasn’t been back in Lakeside for long, but it’s important for a man to stay busy. As Sweeney sits down across from him Wednesday cannot help but smile, gesturing for the big man to take half the toasted sandwich he’d left.

He does. Good dog.

***

Wednesday doesn’t make mention of his little trip and Sweeney finds himself too tired to ask. His dreams are messy slashes of lives once lived, or imagined, or made up. He feels manic, wild, wants to lash out until things make more sense.

If Wednesday sees his tension he doesn’t mock him for it, and Sweeney feels the knot of wariness loosen further. The man in question takes his time sipping at a cup of black coffee, but it’s worth the wait to hear him smack his lips and begin to speak.

“Your coin…it’s in New Orleans.”

He thinks of Coq Noir and shakes his head but Grimnir nods slowly.

“It's true. Muninn's been keeping watch for a while. I wanted to be sure. Your coin is in New Orleans.”

Sweeney watches his hands begin to shake, pulls them quickly under the table.

“What…what the fuck happened to me? How’d my fuckin’ coin wind up in-“

“Stolen. Taken while you were on the other side.”

An image flashes, a witch calling him down dark roads, Essie’s tongue turned to poison and venom. Something had stolen his coin.

His hands stop shaking and something molten hot and powerful begins to stir in his veins. He shakes away the cobwebs and begins to feel himself clear, focus.

“How?”

Wednesday looks worried, as if unwilling to share bad news. He sips his coffee again and chooses his words delicately, carefully.

“There are traitors in our midst.”

A card shuffles and Sweeney sees, briefly, a King and Queen slipping over one another, feels a pang of anger or hurt. A recollection, some kind of déjà vu, some bullshit.

_“They’re death Loa; they fucked us.”_

He shakes it off. Wrong, all wrong. Not them, never them.

Grimnir seems to notice his indecision and confusion, and his voice is a firm order, something soothingly self-assured, heartening for the clarity in it.

“Go tonight. This is a two for one deal; eliminate and retrieve.”

Sweeney shakes his head. This is wrong, this is all wrong. Wednesday leans forward and his voice is calm, reassuring.

“Hey, hey…look, whatever happened to you, the coin is the key. Your memories, all of it…someone has been playing shooting range with your head and it’s time you closed the bullet holes.”

Sweeney stares at Grimnir, waits to catch the lie in him, tries to detect the bullshit and snake oil that he’s so sure used to drip off this man. Instead he sees only earnest concern and instruction, and it would be enough to sound alarm bells if not for the self-serving statement that follows.

“You’re no use to me broken like this; go, take back what is yours.”

Sweeney stares a moment longer and then nods.

“Thank you.”

Wednesday watches he leave and lets the earnest worry drop from his face. A life he needs extinguished, a treasure stolen by an apparent stranger, a man close to insanity and enough doubt to slip gently over the edge of the abyss and pull a spear from its depths.

Two birds with one coin and one mad leprechaun.

“Fuck you, Laura Moon.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Coq Noir - New Orleans, Louisiana - 24 hours before**

Brigitte wipes the bar down carefully, unsettled. She has been unsettled all day, her skin crawling, her hair tickling her neck, her body too awake as if it could see a tiger and she just hadn’t picked up on it yet.

There is no sound in the quiet bar, not given how late it is, but still she can hear heartbeats. Her son, awake and staring at the ceiling. Her husband, sleeping for now but not for long. The girl, whose heart does not beat, but who houses something very much alive.

And something more. A heady thrum like her Banda is crawling over the bar and when it builds and she finally glances up her heart stops.

He’s there in the window, larger than life and staring straight at her. She would normally roll her eyes, give him a “well hurry up then” gesture, pour them both a drink and offer him some leftovers.

But this is not her Sweeney, not their mad man.

This is a figment, because his eyes are made of coins.

She blinks and he is gone, and though she runs to fling open the door, she is not surprised to find the street empty. It was a shade, a shadow, a hint, a moment to view.

A warning.

Samedi finds her there moments later, staring out into the street, frozen in place. When she tells him her voice shakes, and he pours her a large rum to calm her shaking hands.

“I know what I saw.”

She leans over the table, fingers wrapped tightly around the glass so they’ll stop shaking. Long, bony digits are slowly covered as he moves his big hands over hers, warm and strong. He keeps them there and she lets herself inhale this, them.

“He’s gone, chere.”

“So tell me what I saw.”

Her head snaps up and she’s ready for a fight, but he knows her too well, eyes calm and face impassive. He knows better than to rise to her flashes of heat, and it gives way to something else; fear.

She sighs but doesn’t look away.

“You’ve seen it too Samedi; the ravens are circling.”

He is quiet for a moment, surveying their home. They flicker and shift and sink a layer or two deeper into their territory, feeling the blood and music and tears and smoke and wild joy that permeates all around them. The unfairness and the cruelty and the refusal to disappear.

His voice is a gravelly rasp that coils around her, smoke and graveyard mist pouring from his throat.

“We got our ground here.”

She sighs, thinking about the face in the window, a man back from the dead, the ravens at their door, and a Dead Girl swollen with child.

“For now.” 

Later, once they’ve taken their fill of each other, laying out their fears with sweat and skin, she dreams of Mad Sweeney.

His eyes are made of coins and his hands made of fire and she watches the world around him burn.

*******

**Lakeside, Wisconsin – 18 hours before**

Wednesday strokes Huginn’s chest while Muninn fluffs irritably. The snow falls lightly, gently, but they never much did like the cold.

“Calm down. He’s on his way, this will be over soon.”

Muninn does not settle, and Wednesday is no fool; he listens quietly as the ravens tell him what they saw. He tucks his paper under his arm as Huginn hops over a payphone and chatters.

The coin still powering her on…the Loa…and…something more. Something new.

A stomach swollen with secrets.

The payphone begins to ring and he picks it up quickly.

“This changesss things.”

“Possibly. Can’t know without knowing.”

On the other end of the line, through the line, above and below the line, Mr World watches New Media amplify arguments, silence science, dancing through the algorithm with a smile on her face.

“You have laid thisss groundwork for yearsss; we cannot let it go to wassste.”

Wednesday narrows his eyes as the Jinn parks the car and makes his way over.

“It won’t.” He hangs up without another word and doesn’t look away from Muninn as he speaks.

“Is it done?”

“Yes, they are on their way to Chicago.”

Wednesday glances up.

“Don’t look worried, better for your sweetie to be far away, don’t you think?”

There’s a threat and a warning in his pleasant tone but the Jinn does not react.

“What about the leprechaun?”

Wednesday has turned back to his feathered companions but his tone is thoughtful.

“On his way to New Orleans.”

Wednesday is quiet for a moment and the Jinn does not interrupt him. He stares at the birds as they shift and fluff and share their secrets with their master, and wonders if one day he too will grow feathers.

“Load up.”

It's abrupt, like Wednesday has suddenly come to a decision, and the Jinn wonders what his corvid friends have shared.

“Where to?”

Wednesday doesn’t answer at first, watching as Huginn and Muninn leap into the air and begin their journey. They have seen and they have shared and now he needs to act.

“Well we wouldn’t want old Sweeney having to face his little demons alone now, would we?”

***

**Kentucky – 12 hours before**

She thanks the barista for her coffee, shooting him a warm smile and graciously accepting the napkin with his number and knock off time. Worth exploring later, she thinks.

When she arrives at the house she exhales slowly, knows what she will find, is nonetheless saddened by it.

She is respectful and quiet, picking her way through until she finds what she is looking for, returns to the car without disturbing the fluffy creatures around her.

When Bilquis gets back to the car she opens the phone again to read the message.

She has read the text many times before.

Read re-read and thinks she can understand clearly enough how the pieces would, or could, or maybe should fit together.

She sighs and returns the phone to her bag, placing it carefully next to a magazine that had been left on the table next to the tea set. She puts the bag on the floor of the car next to another bag, this one large and canvas, with a bulky object pointing out the end of it.

It has been there since Cairo, waiting.

Perhaps it had been chance, or whim, or perhaps hope driven by the Dead Girl’s fierce eyes and foolishly fierce heart. It had been something borne of opportunity rather than planning and she had been blessed with an empty room, gifted with good timing…

…maybe even a little luck.

Regardless, she had taken it, and now as she drives away she thinks perhaps the universe has its own designs.

***

**A boosted car on its way to Louisiana – 6 hours before**

The drive is long.

He doesn’t care.

He can see it.

Gleaming and golden.

_“That’s the kind of coin you give to the King of America.”_

He had shouted it, hurled it out at…someone. He thinks. Or he wants to. It’s harder and harder to tell.

But he is tired of dreaming of Essie with coins where her eyes should be. He is sick of imagining his own reflection on those coins, staring back out at him and laughing.

He wants himself back. Now.

*******

**Virtue Restaurant and Bar - Chicago, Illinois – 3 hours before**

Mr Nancy is careful.

He doesn’t let a drop of his geechie boy cheddar grits hit the fine silk of his tie as he wolfs it down, not a hint of catfish or his perfectly mixed cocktail. It’s sharp and bright and perfectly balanced, much like the man himself.

Being this stylish and not getting a crumb on you is a hard task but he’s up to it.

Another sip and he smiles. Bourbon, white rum, orange juice and grenadine. Life is good.

His lunch partner is sipping delicately at a zardetto with a whole strawberry, plump and ripe red as it bounces amongst the bubbles. It’s the same shade as her lipstick, and the sight alone stirs a different kind of hunger.

She has been quiet today but he doesn’t mind. He can talk enough for the both of them, and wherever she’s come back from has left her contemplative.

She’s looking down the street, far away, and he turns to follow her line of sight.

Shadow Moon and the Jinn’s little bunny friend are exiting a car and Nancy rolls his eyes.

“Not this mess…”

“Hush.”

It’s gentle and warm but no less an order, and he sits slightly straighter, eyes narrowing and a smile tweaking his lips at the thought of mischief.

She is focused and that tends to make things…interesting.

Shadow looks tired and still has that tense, confused and pretty angry about it look that seems to be his version of resting bitch face. The other one whose name Nancy cannot recall stands slightly further back, giving them a little wave.

“Hello.”

Mr Nancy smiles.

“Shadow Moon…what, I ask, is the point of my tender ministrations if you’re just gonna dress like the hired muscle?” He flashes a sharp grin. “Or are you just leaning into that image at this point?”

Shadow doesn’t respond but his jaw clenches in a way Nancy finds most satisfying, so he turns his attentions to the man a few steps back.

“Where’s ol’ fire eyes today?”

The little man straightens and there’s something protective in his stance that makes Nancy grin.

Well…the bunny has teeth.

“He is with Mr Wednesday.”

Nancy fakes a pout.

“Hard to get time with your man when he’s got a man already, huh?”

The little man does not respond before Shadow blocks him from view and Nancy sucks his teeth in annoyance. Always needs to bring that serious brow, that over the top focus to everything he does. Shadow gives a nod to Bilquis, apologetic, before handing Nancy a brown box.

“Mr Wednesday sends his regards.”

Nancy accepts the box with a glance at Bilquis, who is not at all interested in the contents of it so much as the pair in front of them. He opens it carefully, shielding the contents from view, and stares.

Fascinating.

A beat passes and then another, and while no one is asking, it’s all too apparent that Shadow won’t be moving on until he knows what’s happening.

Nancy’s eyes narrow.

“You ever look in here, Shadow Moon?”

“I’m not one for invading privacy.”

Nancy chuckles.

“Course you’re not. Too good for that. Too pure.”

Bilquis sets her glass down on the table with a click and he glances at her. She’s not saying stop, but the warning is clear, and he chooses his words carefully.

“You order any drama today?”

She shakes her head with a smile, amused, as he turns back to their companions.

“So why am I lookin’ at Shadow fuckin’ Moon and the Jinn’s side piece?”

Salim stays silent and Shadow shrugs.

“Beats me; you know the drill. Package delivered, done and dusted.”

Bilquis’ voice is calm but carries.

“Where is the leprechaun?”

Shadow twitches, his voice accusatory.

“How’d you know he was back?”

Nancy puts his drink down and picks up his fork again.

“I can field that one…you see, it ain’t every day you hear about something that size getting skewered and living to tell the tale…”

He takes a massive bite as Bilquis continues his sentence.

“Word travels fast.”

Shadow rolls his eyes.

“Gods are fucking gossips.”

“Maybe…” Nancy leans back. “Though I am curious perhaps as to how he reacted to seeing your ugly mug when he got back.”

Shadow’s lip twitches and Nancy detects a sneer hoping to break free, but the words are without bite.

“He doesn’t remember.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

Salim steps closer.

“No…he does not remember that night. He does not remember many weeks.” Salim looks genuinely distraught at the thought and Nancy wonders what exactly Sweeney has done to engender this kind of caring, or if it’s just the nature of this little, liquid eyed beast. “Mr Sweeney remembers some things. Just not anything to do with…her.”

Bilquis stares at Salim but doesn’t seem surprised, and Nancy’s interest is piqued.

“Well ain’t that something. Probably useful for the man who killed him, right?”

Bilquis’ voice, normally so serene and calm, cuts sharply through his snide remarks. It’s surprising enough that Shadow straightens to attention as he responds.

“You are angry with him.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but Shadow answers as if it is.

“He got me thrown in prison, killed my wife, and then fucked her. Wouldn’t you be?”

Nancy watches Shadow wince internally at his own words and wonders just how Wednesday manages to get people to go against their own interests so comfortably. He’d feel sorry for the boy if it wasn’t so interesting a story to watch unfold.

Bilquis tilts her head thoughtfully.

“More than that.”

“More than that? That’s not enough?”

“No.”

Shadow is quiet for a moment and it feels like this conversation would be better set against a night sky in a field, not Chicago in the middle of the day on a busy street. Nancy watches and waits and is not disappointed.

“He came back. Forgot it all. Whatever he was on that last night…he’s just Wednesday’s lapdog again.”

Shadow’s voice is low and filled with something like regret, like loss, like loneliness.

Bilquis smiles gently.

"And you?”

“What about me?”

She waits and Shadow glances back at Salim, finding only worried eyes and, for once, no attempt at reassurance. He turns back to her and straightens.

“Where the fuck else was I meant to go?”

“Watch your tone.”

Nancy’s voice is sharp, and Bilquis continues as if she has not been spoken to so rudely.

“You have split the world tree, seen your origins, and still you found your way back to Odin. Do you see yourself so differently to others? Do you not wonder at decades of his machinations?" 

"You're saying Sweeney's innocent…manipulated…you think I should forgive him." Shadow scoffs.

Nancy’s voice is back to its usual, mocking tone.

"Can only do one or the other, those two things can't align. Either there ain't nothing to forgive, or there's forgiveness."

Bilquis nods as a waiter gestures to her glass, letting him refill it and ignoring the way he stares as she continues to speak.

"It can be hard to forgive others, harder ourselves.” Shadow is silent and she continues. “Perhaps this is less about being guilty, and more about human."

"Sweeney is not -" 

Shadow cuts himself off, well aware of the truth and the lie of it all. Sweeney is the most human deity he's ever met. He is bound in human hope and human mischief and human joy and human selfishness. He is a filthy, foible-laden creature. And if he were once something greater, as everyone keeps telling Shadow he was, then perhaps even that was something wrought from humanity too. The best of, the greatest of, but the most human of all the same. 

Nancy sips his espresso and smiles his sharp smile, moving away from Shadow’s guilt.

“And where is he now?”

“Sent to Louisiana.”

Nancy studies Bilquis who is very, very still. Something about her posture sets him on edge, and he looks inside the brown box again to make sure he hasn’t missed something before turning back to Shadow.

“So, the big man is heading to the Big Easy, and you were sent here for an…errand?”

Shadow nods and gestures to the box.

“Well, what the fuck else?”

Nancy glances at Salim and back, and slowly holds out the open box for them to see inside.

Empty.

“A distraction,” whispers Salim.

Nancy watches Shadow clench his fists, his jaw ticking before he looks back to Bilquis with a question in his eyes.

“How did Sweeney come back to life?”

Her answer is simple, unadorned.

“Ostara brought him back.”

Shadow nodded. “That makes sense…Sweeney has Wednesday’s spear. Was she trying to be helpful?”

Bilquis stares into her glass.

“She is dead.”

“What?”

Nancy is silent for a moment, unsurprised but watching Bilquis, whose expression is a mask of calm he knows she does not feel.

She pulls a magazine from her bag and passes it to Shadow, who stares at it with a slow and dreadful recognition.

_Fearsome Flowers and Worrisome Weeds._

Shadow looks back to her.

“Why?”

Bilquis’ voice is no longer calm or gentle, but something with a deceptive stillness, a warning beneath the surface of a still lake.

“Who, Shadow Moon, would want to kill the dawn?”

Shadow picks up the magazine carefully as Salim steps forward with something like determination in his eyes.

“What’s in Louisiana?”

Nancy turns to Salim with a smile.

“Well look at that…someone is finally asking the right questions. Not what…who.”

Nancy watches Shadow’s face as things click together like a punch to the gut, and he curses.

The coin. His obsession with the coin. Wednesday knowing what he was looking for.

Of course, _of course_ it comes back to her, again. How could he have been so stupid?

Shadow turns to Salim.

“We gotta get back.”

“Who is in Louisiana?”

“Laura.”

“Why would she go there?”

Shadow glances at the table but Nancy shrugs and Bilquis watches him warily before he turns back to Salim.

“No idea. But that’s where Wednesday is sending Sweeney, and he didn’t fucking want us to know.”

“But…Mr Sweeney doesn’t even remember her.”

“Exactly.” Shadow strides back towards the car. “He doesn’t know her at all.”

“So what is the-“

“But he knows his coin.”

Salim blinks and they both think of Wednesday’s whispers, subtly reminding Sweeney of what he’s missing, what has been stolen. Sweeney’s drunken rages as his splintered mind has tried to fill in blanks with snippets of memory or myth that just don’t fit.

“We need to go.”

“Wait.”

Bilquis holds something out and Shadow’s hand trembles as he runs his fingers over the familiar wood. She gives him a moment but does not hand it over, instead turning to Salim and passing him the bag.

“Protect this. One day…she will need power.”

Salim nods, eyes worried as he clutches the bag to him tightly.

As they speed away, Nancy watches Bilquis settle herself back down. She is quiet, thoughtful, and he knows better than to push her when she’s like this. Instead he waits until she turns back to him.

“You didn’t want to tell ‘em ‘bout what the Dead Girl is expecting?”

She holds her glass up to the light, the sun casting bright motes through the golden bubbles. 

“Would you have believed it?”

He laughs at that. Three months, a fetus near term, the protection of Haitian spirit holders and an ancient, inescapable story.

He calls the waiter over so he can pay their bill.

“Seems like we should head down South to see the festivities.”

Bilquis shakes her head.

“No…not yet. They have choices to make, ground to break. They have who they need…and what they need there.”

“And what exactly do they need there?”

She leans forward to run her perfectly manicured fingers through the little pile of coins he has left on the table, a generous tip for their waiter. The metal clinks against long nails and she holds one up, turning it so the light glints against it as she answers.

“A distraction.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes we're nearly fucking back in present day I am so sorry it's taken so long I barely know what's happening.


	18. Chapter 18

**Coq Noir, present day…moments before**

_“What…what the fuck happened to me? How’d my fuckin’ coin wind up in-“_

_“Stolen. Taken while you were on the other side.”_

He has been here so many times before.

They blend and shift, a heady mix of laughter and hard work and long nights and whisky. He’d be hard pressed to pick a memory at the best of times, so blended they’ve become over the years he’s wandered.

But the first time...he remembers that just fine.

_Drunk against the cobblestones, again._

_He’s a little proud; he’s never been to New Orleans before but feels he’s doing the town’s motto justice. From his vantage point slumped awkwardly against a wall, nothing close to upright but too stubborn to slide down fully, the whole place seems rather pretty._

_He shifts his cap, tries to remember where he left his jacket, and then attempts to light a cigarette despite the flame’s insistence on moving._

_Something moves on the street ahead and then there she is...and she is glorious._

_Streetlights glinting off red curls pulled back from her face, those sea glass eyes and dark lashes and…power._

_“You…”_

_He knows her, he’s sure of it, though from where he could not say. It’s something old, and as he stares he sees shades of familiarity, of recognition, of something he once was and she still may be._

_It’s something like home._

_Her eyes widen, her lips part, and then she turns and walks briskly in the exact opposite direction of him._

_Maybe not._

_He can’t keep up with her, not with that much drink in his system. When he wakes the next morning, stiff and sore against a brick back alley, he feels it. The chill in his bones had been briefly warmed, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t need it again._

_He searches for four days without stopping, letting his wandering feet trace and follow until he finds himself down an alley and outside a bar. He watches the door for a moment as a pair of drunk college kids stumble their way out, arms around one another and professions of adoration in the air._

_The brick of the place calls to him, screams at him, yells and whispers._

_He steps closer and is aware that he’s on new ground, realises that one of the myriad of threads permeating the bones of this city coalesces here. He has come here despite her running from him, and may very well be unwelcome. There’s a bucket near the door with a pair of drumsticks perched against it._

_He pauses, calls a coin, and then another._

_The bucket is a good a place as any, and he tosses them in there by way of payment._

_The door is still unlocked and the bar inside is almost empty except for two men. The younger of the two continues sweeping but side-eyes Sweeney warily. The tall man in the top hat, however, doesn’t bother to look up from where he is writing down numbers from the day’s takings in a great ledger._

_._

_“Bar’s closed, come back tomorrow.”_

_Sweeney swallows thickly and stays at the threshold without forcing his way inside._

_“I’m looking for somebody.”_

_The man pauses and glances at him, face unreadable._

_“Ain’t we all, mon ami?”_

_He laughs at that, shifts himself to try and regain some semblance of balance on these shaky boards._

_The whisky is starting to burn off and there’s a warmth inside this place._

_He wants it._

_“This someone…think she knew me a long time ago.”_

_The man at the table leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and studying Sweeney more closely._

_“Nibo, ale fè yon lòt bagay.”_

_The young man hesitates a moment, long enough for the other man to suck his teeth in warning, and he sets down his broom, leaving through a door at the back of the bar. The proprietor lights himself a cigar, taking his time._

_“You_ think _she knew you?”_

_Mad Sweeney cannot find the words, but the man can hear them nonetheless. His eyes run over Sweeney, head to boot, taking in bruises and stains and reading between every line that makes up his being._

_He stands and the smoke of his cigar seems to pour over his hands, twist across the ground. There’s a snap of cold in the bar and a hint of the graveyard to the air, and Mad Sweeney holds his ground without forcing his way inside._

_He is being tested._

_The smoke edges its way around windows and bootlaces and skims over the bucket into which two coins had been dropped with a kind of careless deference._

_The smoke withdraws and then it’s just the man in the top hat nodding once as if he has come to a decision._

_His grin is wide and easy._

_“Always nice to visit family, hey?”_

_Sweeney blinks, unsure of what to do with the amusement in this man’s eyes, the glint of mischief in his smile. He doesn't seem to mind Sweeney's disorientation, and plucks two glasses from behind the bar, the cigar he's biting muffling his words a little._

_“You want a drink?”_

_It’s an invitation, Sweeney knows it, and as he crosses the threshold something settles against him._

_Familiar but not quite the same; he’s been allowed inside, and that means something._

Mad Sweeney has come back here again and again, he knows that very well.

Sometimes for just a few hours (tangled and sweating or full of laughter and food), other times it has been weeks before he has needed to move on (or been gently but firmly moved on by an exasperated Brigitte). His mind throws up a hundred times, a hundred occasions, a hundred memories permeating into him, making up his existence.

The splintered craft of his being afloat on salty seas and this place a tie to shore, frayed and tenuous but there.

Home, or something like it.

It hasn’t taken him long, not with Wednesday’s hints and that heat in his veins calling him closer and closer to himself. Not with his foot planted hard enough on the gas pedal that even his filthy luck somehow held out. Not with that feeling of tearing, splitting, stretching as his body feels stronger and his mind splinters further every day.

He thinks about throwing his coins to cross the threshold but something stays his hand.

_Wednesday choosing his words carefully._

_“There are traitors in our midst.”_

_A card shuffles and Sweeney sees, briefly, a King and Queen slipping over one another, feels a pang of anger or hurt. A recollection, some kind of déjà vu, some bullshit._

_“They’re death Loa; they fucked us.”_

Mad Sweeney leaves his coins in the hoard and instead pauses to watch through the window. The bar inside is still, light picking dust motes from the air, and he doesn't know how long he stays there watching before someone comes in through the back.

He watches them moving through the stillness of the bar.

They're far too short to be Nibo or Samedi, smaller than Brigitte even, and lacking her messy grace.

It's a woman, he can see that.

As she steps closer to the light he catches a glimpse of pale skin, sees brown hair pulled back into a loose knot. She keeps her back to the window as she potters around, pulling chairs down from where they’d been left atop the tables at closing, stopping to spray and wipe down the long benches. 

She is careful, methodical, treating the bar to a careful and thorough wipe until the surface gleams in the dull room. She runs a finger over it, pausing to study the shine of the wood.

For moment he thinks she’s nobody, some waitress brought on to help with a busy period.

Then he watches a table being moved, picked up easily with one hand and shifted to the other side of the room with little effort. Nothing human there, not with those scrawny arms.

The heat in his veins pulls him forward and he knows in that moment that it’s her. She turns and the light catches her face.

(It would be nice to think, perhaps, that in this moment Mad Sweeney feels a pang, a pull, something that tells him he knows her. It would be nice if perhaps something suddenly righted itself in his mind, a skinny figure appearing where previously there had been blank spaces, so that it was closer to whole and then so too was he. Perhaps they’d hug, trade poisonless barbs about bellies and being dead things, run to the Baron hand in hand and he’d mix up a new potion and all could be right with the world. But we’re not silly, so we don’t think that. Not for a second.)

Skinny and short, her soft features at odds with the sharpness of her movements. He can see the marks on her, her loose top shifting to show the seams of where the skin had been cut open and resewn, now pulling outwards.

A hag.

A grave robber.

A dead thing. 

He doesn’t need to glimpse much more than that, knows in his bones that it is his coin powering that body, holding that soul to flesh.

A corpse walking around with his coin inside it.

He can feel it.

She's pretty, he thinks, high cheekbones and full lips. He watches her concentrating and clenches his fist, wiping his sweaty palm against his trousers. Stolen, a fucking thief.

She shifts chairs and then suddenly straightens. Those bony hands move downwards to her middle and for a moment the cards of his mind shuffle themselves again, playing a different game entirely.

_Eorann._

_Eorann who had seen him in wild and feral and smiled at him. Taller than any other woman in the village, graceful and elegant with a wicked laugh. Who had revelled in his antics and brought him to heel with the most lovingly exasperated of expressions. Who had grabbed him by his cloak before he went charging after the churchmen on his land, left holding in fabric and her own horrified laughter._

_Brilliant and brave and beautiful Eorann who he had loved fiercely and been fiercely loved by. Who had fought with him and stood by him._

_Eorann whose full belly had brought them both such joy, whose bright laugh in their darkened room had made every part of him feel alive._

_Eorann whose gold dress was gone while the ants crawled over his hands. Eorann whose warm eyes and wild curls had been mirrored on their daughter._

_Moira._

He shakes his head to settle the cards. They throw up something else, something older, something several lifetimes ago, and he lights a cigarette to distract himself as he sets down the deck. His hands shake and he slows his movements as much as possible. He's running on anger and drink and more than a little madness, he thinks, but this must end.

Stolen. Taken. And what is he now?

She is still standing there with a hand on either side of her belly and whatever she feels makes her smile. It’s a quiet, private little smile, and he stamps out the cigarette.

_“You’re no use to me broken like this; go, take back what is yours.”_

He’s not here to watch; he’s here to get himself back.

The bell chimes a familiar little song and he can smell her now that he’s closer, an odd mix of odours that could be the rot of flesh or the sickly sweet richness of fertile soil. Cloying and dark.

“We’re closed, come back later.”

If she’s still feeling any of that peaceful pleasure it doesn’t reach her voice, sharp and impatient as if he’s interrupted her moment. 

“Think I’ll stay.”

She stiffens and begins to shake and he thinks, perhaps, it's a lovely day to be interrupting moments. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Coq Noir – Present Day**

**Now, where were we?**

**That’s right….**

We have a demi-god and a human chasing after an amnesiac with anger management issues and a vendetta.

We have the God of War and his bottled genie on their way to Coq Noir, an awkward side journey on his road to glorious battle of Old and New.

We have a God King turned drunken, spotty-memoried leprechaun standing in front of the witch who stole his luck, his treasure, his mind.

We have more than one trickster god playing with stories and chaos, we have Loa staying out of that fool’s war and about to find themselves in the middle of it, we have a goddess of love and the dawn has stopped dawning and things are all a little bit too much…

We have our selfish little dead woman, belly full of complications and chest full of coin, where we left her…and damn if she isn’t about to have a bad day.

_Laura wipes the tables, moving awkwardly as she leans forward and struggles with the displaced sense of gravity. She has been here months now, she thinks, time running together strangely._

_Strange things stretch and pull, a body called to life out of necessity and yet still very dead. She doesn’t feel the nausea anymore, but can feel her organs pressed backwards, feel her ribcage spreading as something inside her stretches and rolls._

_She moves a table easily, today, lifting it to another side of the room while carefully avoiding the chandelier. Some days she feels like she could throw a car. Others she feels her strength fading, remember throwing up on the side of the road and snapping at his worried expression._

_She sets the table down and stretches, pauses as her ribs are pushed and her stomach bulges slightly at one side._

_She laughs, gives herself a moment to put her hands on either side and feel the odd sensation of something sharp (a foot, perhaps a knee) pressing into her hand. She presses back lightly, feels the give and shift of something completely separate to her shifting inside her._

_“My bad, I’ll let you move.”_

_She is quiet for a moment, lets herself enjoy standing there with her hands full of the unknown. The morning is quiet and still and if she stays quiet and still maybe she can freeze this feeling of strangeness, of uncertainty. Maybe she can capture and bottle the feeling of wondering at something mysterious and mundane all at once._

_She wonders if it would fit in the same bottle as her potion had, or if that would be too small for something as huge as this._

_And then she’s not alone, the spell is broken, and she rolls her eyes at the universe for not granting her a few more seconds of solitude. She doesn’t bother to turn around as the little bells chime and heavy bootsteps sound behind her._

_“We’re closed, come back later.”_

_“Think I’ll stay.”_

_She freezes before beginning to shake._

_“That’s the sort of coin you give to the king of America.”_

_“All my luck is yours, Dead Wife.”_

_“Fuck off.”_

_“Pipe down! Believe it or not, I’m helpin’ you.”_

_“Hi…”_

_She turns very slowly, as if moving too fast might turn this into a hallucination, a memory, something distant and strange that her mind has thrown up to taunt her._

_It doesn’t._

_His frame blocks the morning sunlight that streams through the windows, fairy lights casting pinpricks of gold against his beard, his hair, the buckle of his belt. Same old trousers and boots, suspenders over a white undershirt and jacket in hand. She wants to ask if the heat has bothered him, where he got that black eye, if he’s hungry, how the fuck he is here larger than life and cluttering up the place._

_Her body has other plans, lurching forward. She needs to touch him, feel the heat of him, prove that he’s not the corpse she left in a graveyard but rather real and here and all too fucking solid. She wants to hug him or hit him or possibly both and she can feel the smile twitching against her face…_

_…only to freeze as she finally sees it._

_Nothing._

_Eyes the colour of a forest in autumn should be glaring down at her in irritation, frustration, suspicion, barely concealed arousal and more than a little amusement. She should feel pinned, stripped bare, examined and known. She should be looking up at shock, his stupid fucking jaw dropping open and that cigarette dangling from his lip as he stares at her stomach._

_Instead…_

_She looks up into eyes that hold no recognition._

_“How’d you get my fuckin’ coin?”_

**So, now…we’re all caught up?**

**Good…then let’s begin.**

Laura blinks, stiffens.

The words take a minute to leech into her brain, her body finally registering that he’s not wrapped his arms around her tightly but is holding himself straight and pushing her away.

She withdraws slowly, a familiar pang like embarrassment making her skin prickle.

She swallows, struggling to reconcile the warmth, the solidity of him, with his words.

“What?”

His voice is rough and harsh, rage with an undercurrent of exhaustion.

“Give me my fucking coin.”

She blinks, waits for the joke, the jab, the terrible humour.

The silence stretches and when he moves it’s to roll his shoulders, square himself off. She’s seen it countless times, usually in the spare seconds before whoever he has decided to piss off that day charges at him headfirst.

It’s ridiculous and insane and she struggles to find the words.

“I…I can’t.”

He knows that.

Of course he knows that.

From the expression on his face it is clear that he knows that but does not particularly care.

A muscle ticks in his jaw and then he moves. He’s fast and she is in shock, so when he tightens his grip her jaw she freezes for a moment, unable to move as he stares down her throat.

It’s so fucking familiar that tears prick her eyes and he’s peering into her mouth and goddamnit she doesn’t want him hurt but she can’t do this she can’t fucking do this. He’s crowding her space and too close to her stomach and she’s done this dance before, _they’ve_ danced this dance before.

She does the only thing she can think to do.

She dances the next step.

The flick sends him flying into the wall behind him, staring up with the same shock and pain he’d done that first night, and she feels her body begin to shake.

She doesn’t move towards him this time, doesn’t kneel between those long legs and taunt him, doesn’t take the opportunity to cause some pain with more than a little relish.

She’s too…confused. And maybe a bit annoyed.

The noise has drawn an audience and she hears Samedi in the doorway, a curse on his lips as Brigitte moves in beside her. Bony fingers grip her wrist tightly, a reassurance and a warning all wrapped up in one.

“Sweeney what’ve I told you ‘bout comin’ in here and starting fights?”

Her tone is darker than usual, something sharp beneath the humour, and the wrongness of it all is making Laura’s flesh crawl.

“That was before you started harbouring rottin’ thieves, Brig.”

“You’re the one who-“

“Brigitte.”

Samedi’s voice is firm and low, and his tone makes Brigitte freeze. Whatever passes between the two of them is quick and private but it’s enough to soften Brigitte’s voice to something calm and patient in Laura’s ear. 

“Careful, baby.”

A knot begins to form in Laura’s stomach, something coiled and edgy.

Samedi moves closer to where Sweeney is righting himself against the wall, gripping his chest and coughing. His tone is light, deliberately so, as if he’s approaching something unknown and off kilter.

“Sweeney, mon frère, a lover’s quarrel don’t merit this kind of-“

“She’s got my _fucking_ coin!”

The shout cuts through the quiet of the bar and Laura finds herself jumping.

.

_He’d bargained that first night. Heated and furious and desperate. But bargaining._

_“You give me it back you’ll never see me again. I swear to Bran I swear by the years I spent in the fuckin’ trees.”_

_If she had ever bothered to think on it she may have wondered if it was his guilt driving his desperation, his discomfort around someone whose death he’d caused, his desperation stemming from the knowledge she had to give it up willingly (and why, oh why, would she do a thing like that?)._

_“Hey, I’ll give you another? Yeah. Just as good. Hell, I’ll give you a shitload.”_

_A smile, a foolish deal he’d hoped she’d stumble into, the faded memory of fairy rings and binding agreements._

_Regardless, he’d bargained that first night._

He’s not bargaining now.

She sees more than a glint of madness in his eyes as he glares at her, face ruddy with rage and frustration.

“Don’t know how you got your deceased mitts on it but I want my fucking coin back.”

Laura can’t find the words but when he lurches towards her she shifts, using his momentum to send him crashing over a table. He keeps going, back on his feet and swinging a haymaker in her direction that she barely avoids.

“ENOUGH!”

At Brigitte’s tone he freezes, shaking his head as if trying to dispel an echo while standing slowly. Splinters of wood cling to the front of his shirt.

Brigitte keeps her voice calm and firm and Laura suspects this isn’t the first time she’s used that tone on the man in front of them.

“Sweeney you need to listen, you can’t just-“

“A witch, woman, and under your fucking roof!”

It’s accusatory and harsh and the knot in Laura’s stomach is beginning to feel an awful lot like dread.

Samedi shakes his head, hands up and open, laying his palm reassuringly on Sweeney’s shoulder.

His tone is patient but there’s an undercurrent, a tension brewing.

“She’s dead, Sweeney, an’ you know what that means.”

Sweeney twists away from the contact.

“Territory be damned, brother, I’m getting my fucking coin.”

Samedi sighs, glances at Brigitte and then straightens.

Laura has always found Coq Noir place warm. Comfortable and seductive and warm enough to embrace, a fairy lit welcome, all rich red and dark wood secret corners.

Not now.

As Samedi straightens, slowly and proudly, the bar shifts and the room seems suddenly alert. It’s as if the space around the Baron, the shadows in the corners of the bar, the flicker of the lights and the warm grain of the wood is all standing to attention. Waiting for his order.

Laura watches the change, subtle but sudden, the glint of the skull across his face, the cane that she’s sure wasn’t there earlier. They are still in the bar but could they also be in a graveyard, surrounded by tombstones and cold grass? There’s wood beneath her feet but could it be dirt, could the morning sunshine still streaming incongruously through the windows also be moonlight?

She’s not the only one who notices the change and Sweeney narrows his eyes, turning away from Laura and towards Samedi.

“Why’re you takin’ us down?” He gestures around them and then at her. “What the fuck is going on here? Why are you helping her?”

“ _She_ is dead, Sweeney. And with child-”

“And that means she gets to steal my property?”

Laura is getting very fucking sick of being spoke about like she isn’t here.

“Fuck you asshole, I didn’t-“

“Oh, _I’m_ the fucking asshole-“

Samedi beats his cane against the ground, the impact causing the ground to shake and the sunshine of the morning disappear behind a cloud of mist.

Sweeney drops his hands only to bring them up to either side of his head, shaking it again like he's trying to loosen something. 

Nibo appears in the doorway, eyes wide and hopeful and then confused as he takes in the scene around him. Laura realises she’s never seen that kind of worry on his face, thinks it makes him look younger, more vulnerable than something like him really should.

He moves closer but his father’s hand holds him back.

“Tonton?”

Sweeney’s head snaps back up but he doesn’t bother responding to Nibo, his breath coming out in harsh pants.

“No…the dead can’t own things. Enough.”

Sweeney darts forward fast enough that Laura stumbles but before he can reach her he's met with the crack of Samedi's cane, a heavy blow against his cheek that sends him reeling.

He stumbles, manages to stay upright but is dazed. He blinks rapidly and shakes himself.

***

Sweeney wipes roughly at his mouth and glancing down at the blood on his fingers. Wrong, wrong…all wrong.

He shakes his head again, takes in Nibo reaching a hand out to Laura as Brigitte and Samedi move in front of them. He feels like everyone else has done the assignment and he’s without information, feels the sting of betrayal and worse…rejection. A stranger in a place he has felt as close to home as his wandering feet have allowed; a demon stealing out something important from right underneath him.

He watches as Brigitte strokes the witch's arm before moving to stand alongside Samedi, tries to read her expression of pity and fear.

He feels himself flush, a prickling sense of miscalculation.

_“There are traitors in our midst.”_

“Why are you all playin’ house with…” he rubs a hand over his face where Samedi’s cane has left a rapidly darkening bruise on his cheekbone, wincing and choosing his words carefully. “…her?”

She has suspected but it clicks together then, casts itself into a clear and obvious light, and the dread in her stomach seems to pulsate with an angry, frightened shiver.

“You don’t fucking know me, do you?”

He scoffs as he lights a cigarette, blood staining the butt of it.

“Can’t say I’ve come across many dead grave robbers lately.”

She finds her fear subsiding and wants, very much, to hit him.

Whack some sense into him and scream at him. (Now? You pick fucking _now_ to go even madder? No hello or hi or by the way what’s with the stomach centered weight gain? I’m sorry I went and got myself fucking _killed_ because of my own stupid battle-lust and self-hatred and I’m sorry I didn’t chase after you that morning because I should have or you should at least have stopped and waited or gone back and said something and now…what?)

She sees Brigitte and Samedi share a look, expressive in their silence.

Nibo holds up his hands.

“Tonton something’s wrong, you-“

“Silens, pa pale.” Brigitte’s voice is sharp and Nibo turns to her quickly. “Li pa bon.”

Laura shakes her head and sees Nibo take in something Brigitte is trying to communicate. She remembers their conversation.

_“Ain’t like he was ever that stable…but the less he can remember, the less he knows…him.”_

_Her eyes were sad for a moment before clearing._

_“Parts of you go missin’ in the wind, it’s hard to keep yourself anchored to anythin’. He doesn’t have much of a hold on what makes him up anymore.”_

_Laura plucked at the flowers by the gravestone._

_“How come you can’t tell him?” Brigitte narrows her eyes at Laura but she continues. “You knew him way back when…you remember at least some of it. So why not tell him what…or who…he is?”_

_Brigitte takes the flowers and laces them together, twining them through Laura’s hair in small braids with deft, gentle fingers._

_“Once it’s gone, you can’t just shove somethin’ else back in there. Not for…us.” She continues braiding and Laura stays quiet. “You can’t remind people of what they are; only they can really see that. Can't force reflection when they don’t know how to see themselves.”_

_She finishes another braid and pauses, strokes the hair back from Laura’s face, and her voice is very gentle._

_“That way lies madness.”_

Laura wants to move towards him but there’s no recognition in his face, his anger at being so close and yet so fucking far from his coin evident. She wonders what the fuck has happened to him, why he’s back, why he’s here.

He’s twitching again, his cigarette finished and his angry refuses to stay down and as he begins to shift his balance Brigitte steps forward.

“You need to listen, baby, things ain’t how they seem in that head of yours-“

He laughs then, a flat sound with an oddly hysterical edge to it, and stares at his hands.

“It’s calling me, Brig. Stolen from my corpse and here you’re trying to keep the fucking peace.”

He wipes at his mouth again looks back at Samedi with betrayal in his eyes and confusion in his tone.

“What the fuck’re you doin’, Baron?”

The Baron is very still, smoke curling around his form, his eyes bright and sharp behind the half skull across his face.

Samedi’s voice is the rasp of a knife against a whetstone.

“Could ask you the same question.”

They stare at each other a moment.

_The first night he came, the big man was a broken thing._

_The searching eyes and longing loneliness clung on him like seaweed, dripping from him, awkward and uncomfortable to witness._

_He knew why his wife wanted to reject it._

_“I made my choices, ain’t nothin’ callin’ me back that way.”_

_Her splinters are still jagged, her being still underway, seeking to shuck off the dead wood and leave only new growth in its place. But he knows his wife deeply, has always felt her desire to nurture wild things, knows that there are parts of her that were set in motion long before she stepped off the boat onto American soil._

_“Oui, chere, maybe.” He tilts his head and drinks in the fire of her, knows intimately why a man would want to warm himself on it. “But maybe somethin’ in you still calls to him.”_

_A man who had forgotten so much he forgot how lonely he was, until he saw that flame and felt a warmth like the hearth._

_He watches her allow Sweeney into their home, into her territory. She had not shortage of lines in the con column, and he was patient and pleased to provide the counterpoints._

_“He’s disgusting.”_

_“He’s funny.”_

_“He’s too loud.”_

_“It’s a bar.”_

_“He keeps starting fights.”_

_“Woman, so do you!”_

_“Please, it hardly counts.”_

_Samedi laughs. She is right, of course._

_The big man is_ _loud. Rough. More than a little reckless with himself. Prone to bouts of melancholy that resulted in drinking and looking for a fight. But occasionally he will settle, warmed by whisky and humour and tired from hard work. In those moments his laughter is a boisterous, wild thing, and Samedi finds he cannot help but to enjoy it._

_He put Sweeney to work quickly, taking advantage of the clever hands that mixed cocktails, showed off and prepped for the dinner rush. He laughed and ribbed and watched as the big man began to smile and laugh back. He watched as the big man made Brigitte smile, watched as he showed Nibo how to carve sculptures and spoke about carving as if it brought identity into being._

_Maman may have held herself back somewhat, at least those first few months, but Samedi knew kindred when he came across it. The roughness and the honesty, the entertainers’ tongue and wicked glint seemed only just rediscovered. Mischief and a bit of feral wilderness._

_Slowly the broken thing seemed to find a kind of peace, and Samedi felt his home warmer for it._

_The three of them would drink late into the night, debating everything from music to art, sometimes ending in raucous laughter, other times in less verbose but nonetheless passionate affairs._

_And at the end of the night he knew he had a brother._

Sweeney wipes blood from his mouth.

“I’m takin’ my property.”

Samedi shakes his head, and his voice has a note of regret.

“No, you ain’t.”

Samedi will not swing first, they both know it, and Sweeney cannot help the plea in his eyes. Samedi stands firm and Sweeney’s expression hardens. He exhales, slowly.

For a second the bar is still, quiet, almost frozen. There’s something hopeful in the air, as if perhaps a mistake won’t be made today.

The hope is, of course, misplaced.

Mad Sweeney moves towards Laura and Samedi’s cane strikes out. Sweeney ducks, twisting quickly and picking up a chair that smashes against the wall where Samedi had been standing seconds beforehand.

Suddenly they’re not two men in a bar but something else, one clad in shadows and a top hat, the other something far older, chest bare and striped in woad.

Laura blinks, trying to clear the smoke and flames from her vision, but they seem set to stay as Samedi beats the cane against the floor and the bar erupts into smoke. He beats it again and the impact sends Sweeney flying into a pillar.

He grunts, pulling himself upright, and Laura feels Nibo’s shaking hand grip hers.

Sweeney stands and now there is no mistaking that this is not the man who normally stumbles his way into their space. Whatever parts of Sweeney have come back through the other side with him are old and brittle but closer to battles and siege and legend than ever before.

Baron Samedi is no warrior, nor is he a god. There are no shades in him that were part of an ancient people, no God-King crown still somewhere hidden in his being, no distant memory of greatness or war to add to his legend.

Loa are beyond this, something forged in hope that builds upon itself, something wild and full of fierce joy, something to carry those lost from the most vulnerable safely to the next world. The Baron drinks his rum, smokes his cigar, digs your grave. Their story is not bound in creation, but in solace and connection for the most vulnerable, and because of this their hold to this landscape is strong. He doesn't need to be a warrior; he is more.

There is a clear way for this story to end. 

Laura feels ill, fueled by confusion and anger and an odd sense of indignation on the part of her hosts to have their hands forced like this. She darts in front of the Loa before Sweeney can move, knocking him back with a blow and then trying not to overbalance as her swollen midsection throws her equilibrium out.

“You-“

His hands twitch and for a moment there’s something in them, something long and straight and with an end covered in dried blood, something that winks in and out of existence quickly enough to doubt it was there but for his stunned expression.

Sweeney stumbles back as if buffeted by the wind and stares at Laura, growling through with gritted teeth.

“What the fuck are you?”

She struggles to find the words and thinks in that moment that things probably could not get worse.

“Now now, let’s not forget our manners, Sweeney.”

She exhales a slow, unnecessary sigh at the sound of that oily voice. She was wrong.


	20. Chapter 20

**In an alleyway in New Orleans**

The Jinn sits in a car parked two blocks away from the Coq Noir. Like he’s been told.

He doesn’t listen to the radio.

He doesn’t watch the people around him.

Instead he stares into the sky, watching the clouds rendered warm and gold by the sunshine. He watches the blue of the sky peek through. He thinks of dry, hot places, sand under his feet.

He thinks of hot places inside of him.

He shifts in his seat and watches the sky and knows he is not watching alone.

***

**On the road to New Orleans**

Shadow has driven like a fire is lit under him, and Salim has worried more than once that his intensity

“You need to rest.”

Shadow shakes his head.

“No…we need to get there. Now.”

“Why?”

Shadow is silent for a moment, driving no less quickly but the silence stretching until he speaks again, quietly.

“Laura.”

Salim says nothing but he thinks of her. Sharp tongue and fragile abrasiveness and the smell of rot and rancidity. He thinks of their quiet conversations, her sending him on his way, intuitively releasing him from a vow they’d never realised they bought into.

“You fear for her?”

Shadow shakes his head.

“Yes…no. It’s more than that. I feel…I’m meant to be there. I _need_ to be there.”

“To stop Wednesday…or Sweeney?”

“Maybe? All I know is I’ve felt buffeted around by every second since I got out of prison. And now…” he exhales and Salim watches him straighten. “Now I feel like I know exactly where I’m meant to be.”

Salim feels the power behind the words, and studies Shadow Moon. There’s something underneath the intensity; it’s not Laura’s acidic frustration or Sweeney’s manic wildness. No, underlying this intensity there is something settled and purpose driven, something borne of intention and fate, something pure and bright.

He reaches out a hand and places it on Shadow’s shoulder.

“I think you are right.”

Shadow is still for a moment and then nods once, gratefully, without looking at him.

Salim removes his hand and watches the sky ahead of them.

The sun is so bright, and as Shadow pushes down on the gas pedal, Salim cannot help but feel it is getting brighter.

***

**Coq Noir**

“Now now, let’s not forget our manners, Sweeney.”

The man in question doesn’t turn but Laura feels her blood run cold at that smooth, unctuous voice.

The bar around them shifts, mists parting to reveal the mid-morning sunlight as the Loa turn to deal with the next intrusion.

Wednesday strolls in slowly, unhurried, as if he’s a polite but important guest waiting to be properly addressed. He glances around at the tables, takes in the fairy lights and wood, quirking his lips but otherwise showing just enough respect to be on the right side of fault.

Laura stares, shock hitting her hard as he moves to Sweeney and pats him amiably on the shoulder.

“You OK?”

It is kind and quiet and all kinds of pleasant until he flashes Laura a wink that makes her skin crawl. For his part Sweeney stays silent, rigid and tense, though his eyes flick from Laura to Brigitte to Samedi, alternatively hate-filled and hurt.

“Baron, you’re looking well,” Wednesday smiles at Samedi, gesturing to a chair at one of the tables left intact. “May I sit?”

The Baron says nothing, he doesn’t need to. Brigitte steps forward in a mess of skirts, flashing her teeth in a snarl.

“You ain’t got a seat at this table, not now, not ever.”

Nibo shifts in front of Laura as Wednesday puts on a mocking pout. 

“Hurtful, my dear.” He gestures to Laura. “And here I was thinking you kept better company than this.”

“You have nothin’ here; get out.”

Wednesday leans forward, his voice quiet and his smile sharp.

“I have him, Maman…”

Maman Brigitte does not flinch despite his closeness, despite the threat and warning in his tone. She holds her ground and meets his cold eyes.

Laura can feel the tension in the room filling her throat, settling over her skin like plastic wrap, sticky and tight.

Sweeney won’t stop staring at her, that same furious, hungry look he’d had the first night they’d met, and she feels herself getting angry again. Angry that he’s not moving, angry that he’s here and alive and has still managed to wind up back under Wednesday’s thumb, angry that he can’t even hold his fucking mind together enough to know who _she_ is, let alone what she’s carrying.

She keeps waiting for something to click for him, wonders if a very hard knock to the head will loosen whatever ridiculous blockage has turned her…acquaintance (friend? one time fuck buddy? mythological baby daddy?) into someone who does not know her at all. She glances at Samedi’s cane and wonders if she could snatch it and knock Sweeney with it hard enough to make his ears ring before he caught on.

Nibo, catching her eyes, is briefly amused before shaking his head and mouthing ‘”no”. She rolls her eyes.

Sweeney has caught the entire interaction and briefly looks confused again, eyes flicking between them before settling back on her with barely concealed hatred.

She is very tired of feeling like an exhibit and doesn’t bother to hide it as she snarls at Wednesday, feeling over this stalemate before it has even begun.

“They said to fucking leave, so leave.”

Wednesday’s grin is the sort of expression that lies in wait at riverbanks, ready to snap up anything that gets too close. He raises his eyebrows innocently.

“Why, my dear, when I heard you were in town I just had to visit.” He glances down at her stomach and raises an eyebrow. “And to see you in a family way-“

“Get. Out.”

“Now now, if I’m to be a grandfather you’ll need to be a bit more polite.” He pauses dramatically before raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Unless, of course, this little blessing isn’t Shadow’s get?”

She bites her tongue but knows him well enough by now that he’s reading her. She tries to keep her face completely neutral but even the attempt is enough, and he smiles to himself.

He’s quick, she has to give him that, unsurprised that he pulls the pieces together with such ease. She refuses to let her hand drift up protectively across her stomach, refuses to play the part of the frightened mother for him.

“You’re the wife, you’re the Dead Wife.” Sweeney’s head has snapped up the mention of Shadow.

The knot in her stomach twists again as he snorts derisively.

“You’re the cheating Dead Wife.”

Laura wants to laugh at that, something hysterical bubbling up in her throat and held at bay only by Wednesday’s response.

“She is indeed…Shadow’s ex. Nasty piece of work.”

“You don’t get to judge me.” 

“Well, you say that,” he steps closer and Nibo twitches. “But I didn’t get knocked up by a dead man while chasing after my husband.”

She can’t help herself.

“Weird thing to brag about...”

Wednesday’s eyes gleam with a barely concealed glee and something else, a kind of icy cruelty that makes her wonder just how much she has fucked his plan to illicit this kind of hatred.

He chuckles and she hazards a glance at Brigitte, knows they’re thinking along the same lines.

This was deliberate.

Baiting Sweeney, bringing him down here, all of it.

Sweeney looks irritated but uncaring of their discussion, lighting himself a cigarette. He’s on edge and clearly unstable and it likely won’t take much for him to escalate again in another ill-advised and possibly fatal attempt to get his coin back. They know this, Wednesday knows this, and the latter is clearly happy to use this to his advantage.

Whatever warning Wednesday has given Brigitte is enough to make them hold back, but the Loa are close to snapping as their home, their territory, their dominion over the dead is threatened so casually.

As Sweeney moves back and forth like an animal in a cage she sees him studying Brigitte for a moment, sees him very deliberately avoiding Nibo’s accusing eyes.

Wednesday follows Brigitte’s line of sight and sighs.

“Strange, isn’t it? Things like us…we’re pulled together and held together by belief. External mostly, you understand, but _we_ have to know. Otherwise how can we _be_?” He sighs sadly. “And poor old Sweeney here…he doesn’t know what he doesn’t know.”

He smiles.

“But luckily we know exactly how to get him back.”

“An’ why exactly would you wanna do a thing like that? Last I heard there may have been some bad blood on that last night.”

Samedi hasn’t taken his eyes off Sweeney but his low voice commands the room.

Wednesday shrugs.

“I’m known for my forgiveness.”

It’s so laughable Laura wants to flip a fucking table.

“Bullshit, fucking bullsh-“

“Enough.”

Nibo cuts her off, gripping her arm tightly before she tries stepping any closer to Wednesday. She tries to shrug him off, rounding on him furiously.

“You _know_ this is fucking bullshit, you know he’s up to-“

Nibo’s grip tightens and for a second she feels bones instead of flesh and blood, skeletal fingers cold enough to freeze her skin.

She feels her tongue still, her words die in her throat, unable to argue against his flashing brown eyes and the hold on her arm.

He stares down at her and she sees him, glorious swirl of smoke and violence, and warning. A midnight voice, rasping as if it comes from a throat bruised by choking, echoes in her head.

_Do not play his game._

_Give. Him. Nothing._

The protective edge in the words gives her pause.

It passes quickly between them, there and gone in a split second, and when he straightens she stays quiet and still by his side. She doesn’t need to glance at Brigitte or Samedi to know that they have _seen_ , and her skin stings where his skeletal grip had burned her, a painful reassurance.

She is dead, so she is theirs.

Wednesday, amused at what looked like a public reprimand, turns and smiles at them.

“Well, shall we get this show on the road?”

The first beat of the cane against the wooden floor sends a shock through the building, a chill up Laura’s spine.

“The girl is dead, mon frère, and you know that places her firmly under my protection.”

Wednesday feigns innocence.

“Why Baron Samedi, far be it from me to interfere with her being under you,” he pauses briefly as the wording lands and the Loa, normally so pleased with a double entendre, are still and grave. “But I’m afraid the coin in question is not for her keeping.”

Laura shakes her head.

“He can’t…he can’t take it if I don’t give it willingly.”

Sweeney’s brow quirks at her comment but Wednesday is clearly keen to keep the conversation moving.

“True, he’s as bound by his little foibles as anyone…but he can always just kill you. Properly.”

She stills.

She’d known, of course. Given willingly versus taken from a corpse that was really, truly dead were two different things. If he’d wanted to he could have done any number of things to bring about her demise, either by trickery or planning or just plain surprise. Her strength only protected her so far; she was still a body just one good car accident away from being an incomplete albeit gory puzzle.

He could have ended her and taken it at any moment.

And he didn’t.

Even when it would have been easier, simpler. Even when it made him late, cost him seats, left him at the end of her biting words and cruel tongue.

But that was then and this…this is not a man burdened with guilt over her death, this is not a splintered deity held back by some sense of doubt and confusion or what was left of his tattered sense of honour.

This is something angry and broken and looking for itself in the only places it knows how.

Baron Samedi glances down at his wife, who is intensely focused on Sweeney. She’s staring as if looking for something, anything, and the man in question does not meet her eyes. Brigitte shakes her head at the Baron’s silent question; she does not know which way he will sway.

She’d like to think that some semblance of honour or decency was still binding his actions, still connected to those parts of him that fought for…better.

_“I thought we were gonna save someone.”_

But the hooks are deeply entrenched, and Wednesday did not come here to walk away empty handed.

At Sweeney’s hesitation he steps closer, his voice low and firm.

“The witch broke Shadow’s heart and stole your treasure and you’re just going to let her get away with it?”

He’s laying it on thick and Laura doesn’t resist the urge to roll her eyes.

Sweeney doesn’t look away from Laura and she wonders if there’s anything in there that recognises her, that flinches from her. But there is no familiarity there, only the powerless frustration of a man unable to take what belongs to him, unable to seize back parts of himself. 

His eyes move from her face to her stomach and then over to the Loa. When he speaks Laura wonders if words can have their own layers, their own Backstage, because as he speaks to Brigitte and Samedi she swears she can hear the shifting tides between them.

“This your hill to die on then?”

_This, her…not me._

“Don’t do this.”

_Please._

“Come, Sweeney, let’s finish this and be done with it.”

“Don’t do this, please.”

_Please…please._

Their voices shift from hurt and gentle to something more, something with edge.

“You’d cross this line?”

_Stand down._

There’s a thrum in the air, the hint of battle, the scrape of lines being drawn.

“She crossed it; I’m taking back what’s mine.”

_Stand aside._

Laura can feel her panic building as Sweeney’s eyes flash and the graveyard mist fills the room. The Baron’s face is barely visible beneath the top half of a skull, while Sweeney’s clenched hands shifts as if wrapping around something too close to materialising, something that will break the tension and shatter them all.

The tension is stretching taut as the moment closes in on them, a decision waiting to spring to life.

“No comin’ back from this, mon frère.”

_Stand. Down._

“Suppose that’s for the best then.”

_Stand. Aside._

Laura can take him, she thinks. If she moves fast and slams them both through the window she can get there before this explodes.

As if hearing her thoughts Nibo shifts, bringing himself in front of her to hamper her movement. Her anger flares and then dies as his new position reveals a new line of sight.

Grimnir.

Wednesday waits in the corner, eyes honed on her despite the rising tension creating an electricity in the air now scented with graveyard dirt and ozone. She sees him and knows she can’t move; the gleam of anticipation in his eyes tells her that is exactly what he’s counting on.

“Sweeney, baby, this ain’t somethin’ to come back from.”

Brigitte’s skirts seem to move of their own accord, her fingers flexing and sea glass eyes now a brilliant, terrifying green filled with sadness and pity. As she moves, slowly, like a predator waiting to spring, Laura hears a faint and building Banda. Not a song of joy or rebirth…she hears war drums.

Sweeney’s hand tightens and for a moment his face is lined in blue woad, eyes on fire and battle cry turning his voice into a rasp of barely repressed fury. He hears the drums too and knows how this will end.

“What else would you have me do?”

_The question is genuine if hopeless._

_Which makes it all the more surprising to hear the quiet, calm answer come from next to Laura._

“A geas.”

Just like that, the energy in the bar shifts.

Not a pop or pressure or a loss of tension, but a quiet shift that forces every inhabitant to turn to the speaker.

Sweeney and Samedi turn to Nibo as one in a whip crack mirror-movement that makes Laura wince. Brigitte moves more slowly, for once her fierce warmth something too hot to touch, her movements taut as if barely repressing herself from flaring to bright, burning, hectic flames.

She studies her son thoughtfully.

Nibo stands silent and tall, unflinching in the face of sudden, fearsome attention. For his part Wednesday holds his tongue, but the anticipation is gone, replaced by something concealed and calculating.

All around her she sees people evaluating how to process this new information, and she is all too happy to be the one to break the shocked, considerate silence.

“What the fuck is a geas?”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: CONTENT WARNING
> 
> Mentions of the AIDS crisis and some description of the illness. If you’d like to skip, ignore the first section of this chapter (in italics).

_Nibo has died a hundred times, he thinks._

_Maybe less. Maybe more. Maybe just this once._

_But this is the one that matters._

_This violent, bloody moment of human cruelty writ large on his body._

_This dark and lonely time as their boot steps grow fainter and he feels his life draining away._

_Other times he has dreamed this, felt this, watched this from afar._

_But this time is different._

_This time the cold seeps into his body and then begins to leach away again, his stiffening muscles suddenly warming._

_This time he feels gentle hands with strong fingers stroke his face, his chest, the places his wrists are bound by rough ties. He feels the rope unwound with such tender patience, such refusal to cause him a second more harm, that it makes his chest feel tight._

_This time he hears her._

_“Shhhh, darlin’. I got you, we got you.”_

_The woman’s voice is warm and soft but there is something lurking below the comfort, a thrum of fierce rage, a protective intensity that he wants to bathe in, drink in, be nourished by._

_He feels gentle fingers wiping away the tears that have run the length of his cheekbones to his jaw, dripping down to soak his shirt. He feels lips press themselves softly against his cheeks, reverent and impossibly tender, uncaring of the salty tears or saltier blood turned sticky and tacky._

_“A stór, mon chéri, lanmou mwen.”_

_The language slips between what he knows and what he doesn’t, lyrical as it slips from one to the other and back again. He is helped gently to his feet by those kind hands, and then another set of strong arms wrap around him, these ones thicker with muscle. He smells cigars and rum and graveyard mist and feels safe held against a broad chest._

_Step by painful step he is walked home._

_And he is loved._

_Intensely and powerfully and joyfully, wholly and fully._

_His father walks him through the graveyards and back alleys where the bodies are abandoned, shows him where the cobblestones turn to dirt roads and swamps. They fish and dance and he is held very close until he can stand on his own. He watches the Baron dig graves and when the faces look familiar he cannot help but smile._

_His mother lets him follow her to birthing rooms, to death beds, to comfort and heal and hold space for grieving. She shows him herbs and he finds a knack and when her alluring warmth turns to anger it is with that same protective intensity he had felt that first night they found him. He watches her walk alongside sex workers, mothers, aunties, and grandmothers, women who deserve to smile and dance and drink rum and smoke cigars._

_The first time he meets his Uncle it is a quiet night, far too late for new patrons, but his mother welcomes the bedraggled guest in the door anyway. She is swept into a quick, tight embrace which she pushes off with good humour. When he finally turns to Nibo, the man’s smile is less warm, and his eyes narrow._

_“Who’s this then?”_

_“My son.”_

_The new comer stares with eyes that seem to strip him bare and Nibo holds his head high. The tall man comes to some kind of decision and grins._

_“You play darts?”_

_He does, very well in fact, but somehow that night Nibo loses every game. Mad Sweeney is patient, adjusting his arm and making quiet but useful suggestions as Brigitte watches on warily. Still, the man seems to have every advantage on him, including the occasional impossible shot, and when Nibo questions his being the other man shrugs._

_“Just lucky I guess.”_

_Brigitte rolls her eyes._

_By the time the new comer is drunk, howling with laughter behind the bar with Samedi as Brigitte tells filthy joke after filthy joke, Nibo finds he doesn’t feel like he’s lost at all._

_Quite the opposite._

_The years pass and Nibo heals…and then thrives._

_He holds the tambourine and drinks deeply of rum and laughs and laughs and laughs._

_He finds himself again in this new country._

_He is the lascivious wink, the poorly lit nightlife, the joy and revelry._

_He is bright colours and sequins and electricity._

_He is sexual joy, sexual healing, sexual energy run rampant until it is as much a part of the fabric of the city as racism and Mardi Gras._

_And he is more._

_He is the one who wraps his arms tightly around children whose lives are stolen, he is the first kind face met by women turned corpses by their partner, he is the rich and warm voice greeting those targeted for their identity and paying for it with their lives._

_His very existence is borne of violence, and it is to violence he is drawn, a fierce balm. He is the celebration of life in the face of cruelty, and he does his job very well._

_He has his people._

_Outcasts, LGBTQIA+, drug users, sex workers, communities of colour._

_In the 1980s, as another pandemic rips through New Orleans, Nibo feels something different._

_The severe and harmful social conditions in his wild city leave it vulnerable, too vulnerable. The disease runs rampant and is unstopped by those with the power to provide protection, education, relief and medicine because of where the disease first presents._

_Whole swathes of the population are left to fend for themselves and try to care for each other, without family or wider community support._

_It isn’t just the disease that kills them._

_It is the apathy._

_The stigma._

_The denial._

_The refusal to recognise the source, understand the science, advocate for better._

_The lack of action is a kind of violence unto itself._

_And so where the disease goes, so goes he._

_Ghede Nibo, Loa of those who have died young, dons his black riding coat and whips his way through the streets._

_He waits in the corners of bedsits full of those who should have been in hospital but could not pay enough to be cared about._

_He doles out white rum and whispers in their ears and as they pass away, hollow cheeked and thin, he holds them closely and gently as he walks to the graveyard._

_His father digs many graves, and his mother watches mothers watching their sons._

_And Maman Brigitte watches her own son and knows he is running out._

_Maman Brigitte watches as Ghede Nibo’s black coat, normally immaculate, becomes dusty and faded. She watches as his rum bottle shakes, his hands trembling from exhaustion. She watches her husband sit their son down at a table and force him to eat, sees him manage only small bites as his spirit becomes weaker._

_She watches and then she takes out her bottle of rum and pours some in a small bowl. She leaves it on the window sill and waits._

_The voices wake Nibo from a fitful sleep one night._

_“It’s everywhere and they’re just pretendin’ it ain’t happenin’. Somethin’ needs to change.”_

_"This is your territory, your lot. Why am I here, Brig?”_

_“We need your help.”_

_There’s a pause, as if the statement has sucked the oxygen from his lungs, and Nibo can imagine his uncle shaking his head._

_“Ain’t got that kinda sway anymore, you know that.”_

_There’s a pause and he hears a glass shatter._

_“When have I asked you for a damn thing?!”_

_Boot steps begin to pace the bar._

_“What you’re asking, I can’t do.”_

_“You ain’t even tryin’.”_

_"That kind of power is long lost, Brig.”_

_“Don’t you act like I’m askin’ where your crown is; the fate of it all needs a push, a pull, that’s all.”_

_“I can’t help you.”_

_There’s defeat in his tone, disappointment and self-hatred, but the defeat makes Nibo’s skin crawl. The loss and fragmentation behind it makes him feel ill._

_The silence draws on until it is broken by her speaking again, barely a whisper._

_“A geas.”_

_The pacing stops._

_“What?”_

_“A geas. I place you under geas.”_

_Sweeney’s voice is barely a whisper, something angry and awed all at once._

_“You ain’t that anymore.”_

_His mother’s voice is strong, clear and defiant._

_“No, but you still are.”_

_“You’ve left that behind, I always respected that, you ain’t gotta-“_

_“I left nothing. I kept what I wanted, what_ _they_ _wanted and needed.” There’s an intake of breath and then she delivers the blow._

_“And you owe me.”_

_He can imagine them now, staring at one another across the room, lifetimes or memories splintering between them. His mother’s bright, fierce sea glass eyes and his uncle’s lost forest eyes full of guilt, or shame, or both._

_“Do this. Please. Do this and the debt is gone.”_

_The silence seems to stretch forever and Nibo holds his breath waiting and second after second slips by without a single sound. He hears nothing further, and falls back to fitful slumber._

_A small, subtle change sweeps through the city._

_A politician loses a game of darts in a bar and finds himself in debt, his hands tied at the next policy decision. A Chief of Medicine finds himself out of luck one day, his affair exposed unless he opens his doors. Small, subtle things that require those in positions of power to acquiesce to the requests of those against whom they’d been wielding that power._

_It isn’t enough, of course. Prejudice and poverty have a way about them that a few minor twists of fate wrung out by a faded deity cannot change._

_But Baron Samedi slows his grave digging, and Maman Brigitte comforts fewer mothers._

_And Ghede Nibo rests._

***

Wednesday holds his tongue.

An amnesiac mad man driving Gungnir through his undead baby mama to retrieve his shiny treasure works out well. Mad man kills girl, mad man gets back coin, mad man goes madder on realising what he has done, spear is out of the hoard and Wednesday can stroll off into the sunset.

Mad man with memories back, baby mama properly dead and spear still in the hoard is…less good. Distinctly not good.

The culprit, lean and dark and standing before Laura like a fucking guardian, has thrown everything off. Sweeney always was too hungry to mean something to somebody, hell, it'd been part of his value.

A geas fucks things up...

Still, he’s gotten this far. Wednesday can wait this hand out to see if he catches a turn on the river.

He can wait and see.

***

“What the fuck is a geas?”

Nobody answers her, Samedi speaking directly to Nibo.

“Nibo, kisa wap panse? Pourqoui?”

“For her. To buy her some time, Pa.”

Brigitte is watching thoughtfully and Nibo steps closer to her, his voice hushed and beseeching.

“He wants the coin back, Maman. Wants the reassurance. So give her time.”

His mother's voice is quiet and sharp.

"The fuck you know about geas, Nibo?"

"I know they're still yours, know you've worked 'em before just fine."

"How?"

Nibo doesn't look away from Sweeney's anger, nor the much deeper concern underlying it.

"Just lucky I guess."

Brigitte and Samedi share a glance and Sweeney swallows, uncomfortable.

Samedi is the first to break the silence.

"He's got a point, Sweeney fou."

The nickname makes Sweeney flinch from some unseen clash of concepts, his anger and betrayal warring with the sense of home, and he spits his words as if trying to get them away from him.

“Why the fuck would I do that? You got any idea what you’re askin’?”

Nibo rounds on his uncle and matches his intensity.

“Oui Tonton…or were you thinkin’ it better to murder a woman and her unborn child in our bar?”

Sweeney doesn’t move, Nibo’s harsh words a reminder of how deep this rift can split them. Another violent death for Nibo to clean up, another life thrown away. Samedi cuts through the silence.

“Mind yourselves, we got company.”

Laura feels a quick pang at being excluded before she realises he's talking about Wednesday, and then has to wrestle with the pleasure she feels at being a part of something.

It doesn't last long because she still has no idea what the fuck is going on.

“Hey! Can someone please tell me what the fuck geese have to do with any of this?”

Nibo breaks the staring contest he’s been having with Sweeney and turns to her.

“Geas…it’s like a fancy deal.”

She stares at him, shaking her head slightly at the least useful description ever heard.

“Fancy...how exactly?”

Nibo’s mouth opens and closes awkwardly and she gets the distinct impression that he has introduced an element without quite thinking through all the consequences. He looks worried and she can't stay angry, not with him.

She squeezes his arm reassuringly, unaware that her kind smile and brittle eyes make for an odd picture.

“Tell me.”

He still doesn’t speak but she gets her answer nonetheless as Sweeney’s voice carries across the bar.

“It’s a curse…or a gift…depending who you’re talking to.”

He's staring at the place where her hand is resting on Nibo's arm, but it's the first time he’s spoken to her directly without hatred in his voice. Though she suspects it’s because he’s focusing too intently on Nibo to really give her much time, it’s an oddly welcome feeling.

Brigitte, who has been watching her son intently, turns to Laura.

“Chere, it’s a deal. One you won’t be able to break. Sweeney can agree to leave the coin with you on the condition that it gets returned at a set time.”

“Again, Brig, I am distinctly un-fucking-clear as to why I’d let this…witch keep my coin a moment longer.”

Laura bristles as she hears him say witch but clearly mean something else, and resists the urge to poke her tongue out at him. Big fucking baby.

She's clearly not the only one annoyed at him.

“You gonna take it?”

Brigitte's voice could cut glass.

The Loa straightens and squares off against Sweeney. The latter may be taller and wider, but in that moment Maman Brigitte seems like a giant. She doesn’t raise her voice, but it fills the room nonetheless.

"Well? Are you? Are you goin' to go against my word, our words, through us and to her? You gonna spill our blood on our ground?"

It's a call to action, clear and burning, laying out next steps and asking Mad Sweeney exactly what he is planning.

_Will you give us up? Will you give this up? Will you throw us away?_

_Will you throw me away?_

Laura wonders what he's thinking of as he stares at Madam Brigitte, and she sees his jaw tic.

(She can't know, of course, that he's thinking of the nights when the nightmares were too much and he clung to her, exhausted and lost, the only anchor to the warrior he had once been and a beacon of what could be achieved in a new world if a god was willing and able to grow...she can't know he's thinking of teaching Nibo how to carve a new cane from freshly felled wood, or arguing with the Baron over whisky, or letting himself take and be taken when words weren't enough and skin was all that was left. Laura Moon can't know that he's being asked whether he will walk away from the only campfire and hearth he knows, even with his beloved coin so close and yet so fucking far).

The madness and exhaustion are clearly weighing on him, but every being in the room knows the answer.

Sweeney breaks their standoff and shakes his head, sinking in on himself in defeat. Brigitte nods approvingly and turns back to Laura, fierceness still wrapped around her like a cloak.

She takes Laura's hand and brings her close, smelling of herbs and grief and joy and rym. Her grip is strong and warm and Laura cannot help feeling deeply, deeply grateful to be close to her fire.

“Trust me.”

And Laura does.

“Don’t fall for this, Sweeney. Take the coin and let’s go.”

Wednesday leans comfortably against a pillar, his words lazy but the urge clear beneath them.

Brigitte ignores him.

“Sweeney, baby; she’ll return the coin. Just give her some time.”

Sweeney doesn’t look at her.

“How long?”

“A year.”

He scoffs.

“A day.”

“A month.”

“A week.”

“Don’t toy with me, Brig.”

“How about when the wee baby Moon comes into the world?”

Wednesday’s voice is quiet and his face impassive, but Laura cannot shake the feeling that he has found a new angle.

When they turn to look at him he shrugs.

"What? It can't be long now, and surely his good will doesn't need to extend to you nursing. You can find a new way to live, or the little one can hear about his mother from this...newly acquired extended family."

He smiles charmingly and Sweeney studies him a moment before looking back to Brigitte.

“Fine.”

“No.”

Brigitte seems to share Laura’s concerns, shaking her head at Sweeney. He's straightening as it ready for a fight, clearly done with the bargaining part of this exchange, wanting the ground settled.

There will not be another standoff, the terms are set.

Brigitte glances at Samedi and if it looks as if she's asking a question, then perhaps there's good reason for that. The Baron nods and she turns back, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

When she speaks Maman Brigitte she chooses her words very, very carefully.

“First wail; let her hear that, at least.”

It’s a subtle reminder of what he’s laying down, but Wednesday’s pushing has worked, and Sweeney only hesitates a moment before turning to Laura.

“Done.”

She feels the world shift again, her stomach dropping as he moves closer.

Suddenly, they are alone, or it feels that way at least.

The mist clears, leaving behind a muted space, splashes of brightness like sunlight glinting through trees, like light hitting cold water, like sparkles of gold in the corner of her eyes.

“By the grace of your fuckin’ good luck I’ll leave my coin with you until your babe squalls. Then you’re back to rot, understand?”

In all the times she had laid in the dark and thought about him, about this, even for just a few fleeting moments…not once did it involve a devil’s bargain.

She nods.

When he speaks again his voice takes on a slower, calmer tone. 

“The moment your bairn is earthside and draws its first unholy fucking breath, the first time it howls a wail to the sky, the coin in your chest returns to my hand.”

Laura's skin prickles, the words pulling against fate to create a binding pathway from which no one can deviate without bloody reprisals.

She stares at him and he reaches out a hand and she can feel it then, something binding and golden and powerful leeching into the air all around them.

“Deal?”

It’s too fast, too much.

She can feel it ready to snake around her, to take the coin from her chest and leave her a husk at a word. She thinks of stories of the Fae Folk and deals and bargains and how rarely they turn out well, she thinks of Wednesday and his plans, she thinks of the tiny thing inside her currently rolling and making her insides feel like a carnival ride.

She studies his eyes, tries to read past the oddly reflected light in them.

It’s too much and yet she knows she doesn’t have another option, not one that leads to her waking up tomorrow, not one that will sate the curiosity that has been growing inside her these last few weeks.

She knows he won't grab her hand, knows in her gut he'll not force this on her. Open, willing, entirely consenting...she has to give this freely.

She has to choose.

_Trust me._

So she does.

In many ways she is bound already, and so with Brigitte’s words in her heart and more than a little venom in her throat, she holds out her hand to him.

“Deal.”

She grips his hand, feels his fingers wrap around hers, and for a split second there is just warm skin until suddenly she feels it.

A heat between their skin, travelling from him to her, coiling around her arm like a snake and moving upwards. She feels it spreading across her throat and thump against her ribcage like an external heartbeat before winding around the coin in her chest.

The heat briefly flares across her and then dissipates, but she knows it is still there, still waiting.

She is bound.

***

Maybe we thought Shadow and Salim could stop it.

Maybe they could have.

Maybe Shadow could have burst in and saved the day, stopped the bargain being struck.

Maybe Salim could have found a way to make Mad Sweeney remember.

And if they'd been able to get there in time, maybe everything would have been ok.

But Salim and Shadow are still driving, the latter feeling the pull of destiny, the former staring into the same sky as the Jinn.

And so nothing is stopped, and the world changes, again.

***

As the room returns to normal, Laura leans heavily against Nibo, feeling exhausted deep in her cold bones.

Wednesday ignores the rest of the room with ease, speaking directly to her.

“So what’s the plan then, Mrs Moon? Have you picked out a stroller and pre-school?”

His words bring acid to her throat and panic to her lungs. It's as if he's pinpointed the fears, the pressure, the things that make her want to run back to a hot tub and bug spray herself into a world where she doesn't need to deal with this risk, this vulnerability.

His smile is gentle, supportive even as he continues.

“Don’t you think that maybe you’d be better off choosing another path, my dear?”

She is too tired for this.

She’s made the deal. The coin will be gone and so will she, why the need to taunt and push? Fucking asshole.

“Why the fuck do you care at all what I do?”

His smile flickers, eyes fixed on hers so tightly it’s as if he’s avoiding looking elsewhere, avoiding giving anything away.

“I’m just giving some friendly advice.”

She stares a moment and then it hits her.

This isn’t what he wanted.

“You…you don’t know what this means for your big schemes, huh?”

She folds her arms across her chest and waits.

He purses his lips and she knows she’s right and fuck if that doesn't give back just a hint of energy to her wrung out body.

He sent Sweeney down here, knew he’d be so angry at the coin and whatever magical fucking amnesia was messing with his already questionable mind that he’d be liable to snap. Probably thought he’d end her, get his coin back, and continue on his merry way none the wiser (or worse, have his memories return and the guilt reduce him to a splintered blubbering mess).

However, they hadn’t arrived together, and Wednesday clearly hauled ass to get here quickly, which tells her...he can’t see all the angles.

Wednesday is clearly growing tired of feigning civility in the face of her attitude.

“Whatever maggot ridden lifeform is inhabiting your womb is of little consequence to-“

“Isn’t it?"

She smiles sweetly.

"I kinda think it should be…demi-gods, right? Or at least…something a little extra?"

She keeps going, enjoying that he’s off stride. In the corner of her eye she sees the Loa stiffen, sees Sweeney straighten, feels his eyes on her. She considers stopping, but the corner of Brigitte's mouth is twitching into a smile, and Samedi licks his lips in anticipation.

“See, I’ve been reading up on my mythology, and it seems like sprinkling little ones around rarely goes well for Big Schemes in the God-verse.”

She leans forward, just a little. “And you’ve got that Big Scheme still, don’t you?”

Sweeney looks to Wednesday.

“What’s she fucking talking about?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Wednesday sneers as he addresses her.

“You think for a second you know this world? Just because you didn’t stay dead and managed to fuck the most useless creature in America?”

She can see him biting the words off, stopping himself from spilling any beans, and it’s such a pathetic attempt to hurt her that she wants to laugh, to ask him why, if Sweeney was so incompetent, did Wednesday keep him around? Overly emotional and sarcastic and masochistic and a little too quick to be reckless…but he was far from useless.

_“You keep giving away my seats.”_

Sweeney wasn’t useless, despite what he thought. Despite what he believed, deeply, in his bones.

She hadn’t cared enough to look at it when they first met, but with the benefit of hindsight she can see all of it. The shame and acknowledgement of his own cowardice, his multiple failures writ large. She wonders how gods can be so arrogant while he stayed so pathetically human.

The man in question has forgotten about his cigarette now, watching the interplay with a different kind of fascination, a little morbid, like when you see a teacher being told off.

She studies Wednesday, tilts her head and gambles.

“That’s what you told him, right? That he was useless. That's what you tell all of them.”

She steps forward, pleased when Wednesday raises his chin minutely.

“That’s how you operate? Find the big ones, the powerful ones, the ones feeling a little lost and lonely in the world…and convince them they’re special to you?” 

“If you’re talking about your dear husband-“

“I’m talking about you and your overplayed daddy issue generating cycle of abuse bullshit.”

She thinks of Shadow in the backseat of that car, toying with his coin and deeply shaken after seeing Wednesday's sacrifice to Ostara. She thinks of _him_ towering over her, voice tight with repressed anger and pain.

_“I hate Wednesday…more than you will_ ever _know.”_

She’s finding her stride, comfortable with the acid in her words, the mocking accusation.

“You build them up and then keep them chained to keep them useful. You need them to feel small, obligated, less than what they are.”

“Pot, kettle my dear.”

She shakes her head.

“No, I know my shit – I didn’t want anyone to feel chained. Never.”

She steps closer.

“You reduce people because you know they could be a threat to you. Because you fear them unless they're under your thumb."

Wednesday can’t stop his eyes flicking to Sweeney and then the Loa, who are watching Laura with something akin to pride. She doesn’t take any of it in, stepping close enough that she’s nearly nose to nose with him, letting her words bite out.

“You’re a fucking loser.”

The bare hatred in his eyes makes her want to cradle her stomach protectively but something about this interaction is hitting the mark. She is so fucking tired of feeling acted upon that this is a relief and she refuses to back down.

He gives her his oily smile again and she wonders how many times she’ll have to shower to wash it off.

“Not even you would bring a child into the world just to piss me off.”

She shrugs.

“Maybe not…” she glances down for a moment at her belly before looking back up to meet his eyes.

“So let’s call that a hidden bonus.”

“One you won’t be able to collect, I’m afraid.” He steps back and turns to Sweeney.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Sweeney doesn’t move.

Instead he continues to stare at her, mouth slightly open in the wake of her tirade against Wednesday, and for the first time throughout this entire interaction there is no malice in his gaze.

There’s another kind of hunger there now, and something else, something a little like admiration.

It’s familiar, the same way he looked at her on the train as they split people apart. The same barely there smile that she’d seen when she snapped off his cuffs and his mouth said “fuck off” while he eyes said something else.

The ground feels shaky beneath her feet because it’s so fucking familiar she wants to cling to it. For a split second that spark is back, the one she had felt when he first walked into the bar, that giddy joy at seeing him alive and here and alive and _here_ and _alive_.

She wants to tell him.

Tell him what happened, who she is to him, what they went through. She wants to tell him about the Loa and their skeletal open arms catching her when she was falling, about how terrible her chilli is and how hard Nibo can make her laugh. She wants to tell him about the tiny being that keeps her awake at night and presses little feet into her ribcage and gets the hiccups, the fucking hiccups, so that her stomach twitches like some alien horror show. 

She wants to tell him that she’s sorry, or angry, or both, or neither.

_“All my luck is yours, Dead Wife.”_

“Sweeney, time to go.”

Wednesday’s voice is sharp and his interruption is enough to make her want to throw a table at him. Sweeney breaks their standoff to look down at the floor and then back to the Baron.

"Be seein' you."

The Baron doesn't respond and there is a sense of rawness to their silence, a bridge crumbling that will require some kind of rebuilding, a wound that will need to heal.

He leaves without another word, and Laura doesn’t exhale until she feels Brigitte’s arm sling around her shoulders, holding her upright and close.

“You did good…” Brigitte presses a kiss to her temple. “I’m gonna keep you.”

And Laura, eyes tearing up with everything she has refused to let spill in his presence, begins to laugh and then cry.

***

“Go get some air and meet me back at the Decatur St in a few hours.”

Sweeney stares at him, somehow solid and splintered all at once.

“What the fuck was she talkin’ about in there?”

Wednesday shrugs.

“You and I both know they’ll say anything to get their way. Just ask poor Shadow.”

He turns before Sweeney can say anything further, the latter staring at the exterior of Coq Noir for a while. When Sweeney notices the ravens his eyes narrow, and as he walks away he finds himself trying to pull on a thread that no longer exists.

Wednesday gets back into the car without a greeting.

“So, let’s find a payphone.”

“The spear?”

“Sadly no. Even without knowing her he’s fucking soft, broken brain and all, and without that push I fear our window for a quick resolution is closing.”

The Jinn is silent for a moment but the question is bubbling up in his throat.

“Did he get the coin? Does he have his memories back?”

If Wednesday finds his interest strange he says nothing, too busy watching the road ahead of them.

“Not quite…he won’t get the coin back until a baby wails.”

The Jinn blinks.

“So…what will you do?”

Wednesday spots a payphone and points it out, his voice low and far too calm as he exist the car.

“Make sure that baby never fucking wails.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was edited on my phone while waiting at the laundromat so let me know if it's gone wonky, I got impatient.
> 
> Big thanks to Ettume for letting me bounce ideas and reality checking my flashback for this one.


End file.
